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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=489009" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>I could have done other useful things than writing a poem</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sometimes I have regrets writing poems<br>Love poems, poems about virtue and heroism<br>Poems that explain myself, that justify <br>This nothingness<br>That fill this emptiness, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">What are these but signs and metaphors of <br>My weaknesses, <br>Symbols of my hopelessness<br>Ciphers of my uselessness <br>To life’s dreams, unfulfilled, stars that I have not<br>Reach or even touch with the words in my lips</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I could have danced, and danced so well<br>Sweat things out shedding sighs and skins on the floors<br>I could have played a role, acted my way out<br>Exiting through the doors of author’s characters<br>And feel this sense of <br>It was her it was him it was not me</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sometimes I feel <br>To be a poet is to be dumb and dead<br>To demand nothing but this honor<br>This laurel this principle <br>That I cannot eat that I cannot sell that I cannot<br>Make use of, <br>Useless poetry, trashy, nothing but bad breathes<br>Of my being<br>Foul and nauseating to my sense of <br>What I dream what I want to be <br>To be this great, respected man of power<br>One that commands rather than take orders<br>From someone claiming superior feathers</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I have long wanted to stop but here I am again<br>An addict to poetry destined for rehabilitation<br>In distant cruel word processing centers</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Just like you, here I am again, not stopping<br>My fingers always wanting to type the words<br>My mind always listening <br>my heart always mouthing<br>Words, words, words, these words<br>This poem</div><div style="margin:10px 0">This poem is born and I am its tributary<br>I am this poet now without a face without a name<br>I am but a mouth, fingers to my hand<br>Always not stopping, how can I tell you why? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">When I myself, do not really know. I am this poem<br>With an unknown author, I am this poem just written<br>Taking shape like a candle lighting, <br> Flowing from your thoughts<br>Taking the forms of beings unknown to us<br>We claim we understand we claim we can live with<br>You are now lost asking the way<br>You could have done other things than reading this poem</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Precisely this is what I really feel. Do you feel it now? <br>Yes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Ric+S.+Bastasa">Ric S. Bastasa</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=489009" data-title="I could have done other useful things than writing a poem de Ric S. Bastasa" data-description="Sometimes I have regrets writing poems
Love poems, poems about virtue and heroism
Poems that explain myself, that justify 
This nothingness
That fill this emptiness, 

What are these but signs and metaphors of 
My weaknesses, 
Symbols of my hopele..."></div>
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