“I think all writing is a disease. You can't stop it.”
—William Carlos Williams
Very few poets make a living of poetry
and those that try mostly live in penury.
Frost was a farmer and Byron a Lord
and Shakespeare's plays paid his room and board.
And yet I sit here night after night,
compelled by my nature to write and write.
Why do I sit here and put down on this page
my fears and my hopes, my joy and my rage?
What has been my reward for these hours of toil?
How has rhyming eased my shuffle through this mortal coil?
Not a thin dime, a wooden nickel or a single cent
has poetry ever offered to put torwards my rent.
But every night when I'm tired and the day is done
I sit myself down and write yet another one.
For like taking a breath or the beat of my heart
I write and I write and try to perfect my art.
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