I look, I say, does that feel right? No, not quite.
Does it say exactly what I want to say and how I want to say it too?
Would you like it if I was you?
Should that word be changed or those lines rearranged?
Move them around, move them back.
I cannot say white is black.
When there’s nothing even slightly strange I say, that’s it, no change.
It may take a day or two, sometimes much less,
you think its right, you say yes,
but no, a nagging doubt remains,
genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains.
Does it sound right when I speak?
I always know a line is weak.
Sometimes, just remove or change a word,
simplify, a thought occurred.
Here a comma, make that end there,
above all, care, care, care.
Feeling is right, thinking wrong,
last the singer, first the song.
Do the words feel right in my mouth?
Oh poem, glass of the warm south!
Like wine, a poem must mature.
Else, the lines do not endure.
A poem is a growing thing, responding to tender, loving care.
It must feel and be as free as air.
Art is of the heart.
The end is the hard part.
Nothing is ever about anything, it’s about everything, do you know what I’m trying to say?
Should I say it another way?
When will love start?
Caring and sharing is what it’s all about.
I’ve said it all.
I’ve nothing else to say, at all, at all ...................................................... at all.