The poet

The Poet by Emily Sturgill

momentary malady for
a simile,
she struggles for fact, fiction or prose
nobody knows.

momentary memories,so fleeting
in fact, in the random blink
of an eye-it’s there but then
it’s gone.

She fell in love, once
with a verb.
Many words after,
that was her private
disaster.

An on-going love affair,
with the flowery flow
of words, here they come,
but then they go,

just as fast.
Why? is the question, one
would most like to ask.

But she does not know the why,
She’s just another madwoman,
obsessed with the “What” “Where” “Why” and “Who?”

Why does anybody ever write?
because, they have not quite figured,
out the way or reason to stop.

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