the poet’s irony

I try to write of love
but words ne’er flow;
I read of others’ passions
and regret that I don’t know

how to get those thoughts
inside my head – desires of the heart,
turned into words and phrases,
I just don’t know where to start

Diagnose It! Says the Brain;
find the blockage, make it better.
There’s got to be a trigger, lever
button, or “re-setter”

Stop Feeling! Says the Heart;
that stuff was made for simpler folk.
if you lead from somewhere lower
than your neck, you’ll end up broke(n)

See? Just thinking thoughts of love
will turn my verse and rhyme to blather;
Sit and stare at all the anguish,
then begin to type – I’d rather.

“Write what you know” Twain said;
and I’ve tried hard to follow suit.
But other things Mark said
have made me feel less resolute:

Focus more on your desire than on your doubt,
and the dream will take care of itself.

Change the focus, that’s the ticket;
I shall try to do aright.
but today, I find my words are spent;
“next time” love may take flight.

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