Poems are not written, they are sighed
By pain, to escape pain, for pain does not wish with pain to reside.
You, who do not think, think
Poems are written by someone’s hands
When someone’s thoughts fall in a barrel of imported ink.
The professor who said this is a dirty liar.
Poems are sighed by me—who cried in the sink,
Who moaned on a walk—with a heart severely smitten
By you—not someone else—you. It was Saturday.
Friday, I had loved you willingly, willingly.
Then all that sighing. It came suddenly;
I fell ill on Saturday. You had to go. You wouldn’t say.
I sighed in my soup on Saturday.
Why you had to go, I don’t know, you wouldn’t say.
Why did you go? Now I can’t believe in Saturday.
Sunday is no better, and when Friday came again,
I believed in the Friday that was gone
Even as Friday saw me suffering, and then
Suddenly more sighing was going on.
You silly ass! Poems are not written, they are sighed
By pain—to escape pain, for pain does not wish with pain to reside.
