Where do failed poems go when they die?
They course through the brain, our veins
slowly popping, eyes getting blurry from the
editing, chop-chopping—yet still they won’t fly.
How about inept emotions found dead on the floor?
We can’t all be jailed for crimes against perfection.
Maybe there’s times when natural selection
just doesn’t apply anymore.
Where do failed friendships go? Do they cry
as they expire? We can’t make the ball
go over the net, go any higher, merely by wishing.
There’s always switching eggs to another basket,
but a mighty big task it is, to just let things die.
Where does failed music go when it’s over and done?
Ax in the bag, head for home, hang your head,
spin some wax, write a poem. But it won’t
change a note, and there’s nowhere to run.
What about the pain of a failing world?
It’s too big a job for a poet to tackle, tease into rhyme.
If we whack at the demons, or just hide, mope around,
our faculties will start to shut down from the strain,
from the loss of composure. So, please don’t give up.
It’s not done ‘til it’s over.