Once The Idea Comes To My Mind

i may find a pen and make a note in any of those
papera in my pocket anticipating such a situation
of radiance
without light at all
i may have captured the new idea
on paper
in writing, so it may not escape and slip like an eel
like a droplet of water
on my raincoat from my head,

but sometimes, i am too lazy to listen and
impatient to write what comes to me
as a gift
and i let it go, let is slip in my tongue like a spit
a phlegm

after all, it may not be important, so important that i may soon die
if i forget it
or the world stops spinning
or this whole world ends,

there is no such an idea,
there is no such person even, so indispensable, so important

there is no such line
no such poem, everything here is always something throwable
into some trashcans

sometimes, i have them inside myself, and then
without so much regret
i vomit,

who cares anyway?
oh well, nobody, except the critics who are there
always to kill your urge
to write poetry, who are always there to compare you to someone
deserving
the laurels of despair, the crown of literary gall
the thorns of misery

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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