Ink Envy
I come here to post,
but then I start to read,
and then I read some more,
and then I am not so sure
there’s really any need.
Seeing the wondrous minds at work here,
the brilliance of their concepts, so pure,
their surprise endings often haunting,
it’s all a little daunting.
I’m don’t think I’d call it jealousy,
but I do experience ink envy.
I have to wonder why I’d bother,
with so many marvelous poems each day,
a billion beautiful blogs in play,
what’s one more poet have to say?
I tell lots of stories,
that’s for sure,
it’s too late now to worry
about too much exposure.
Ultimately, there is only one choice.
In fact, I write because I have a voice.
I write for the pure expression of life,
the joys and fears and hopes,
both the ease and the strife,
surely about love,
what some refer to as from above.
I write, inspired by the writing of others,
by Veterans, my sisters and brothers,
by the natural world in constant motion,
by speechless days at the ocean,
by the sun and the moon,
their setting and rising,
their colors and moods
sometimes surprising.
As age has flattened me,
as humility has claimed me,
I now write more about Spirit,
about oneness, about transition,
what some call God,
unearthly cognition.
I don’t know what tomorrow will bring.
I’m simply sure I will write about it,
allow both heart and soul to sing.
