Unoriginal Poem by mike ruthenbeck

How oft, have they been so duly noted
These four walls which outside are howling wind
With every poet I’ve nearly quoted;
My originality most chagrined…
I wish for my soul to leap to the page
For myself to be most fully explained
To let flow love and subliminal rage
In restrictive meters most unconstrained
I wish nothing more than to lay my soul
Bare on paper for a haughty critic;
For me, I recommend a pigeonhole
To just think and lay in catalytic.
These same four walls of which all have spoken
Through the ages of sacred penmanship
Have become my terror ridden token
Trapped within Safety’s winter membership
From deep within my bulging bloodshot eye
A tear marks the page to exemplify


This damned-able wind howls incessantly
Each morn, I shake and quiver and cower;
My skin begins glowing fluorescently
Watching the minute hand strike each hour
Through each passing night, into the day
I keep my hands in my pockets when can
On arrival leaving my overstay
For my safe four walls and my black-and-tan.
In total terror, I’m losing myself
Feeling my own past slip slowly away
Fading in photographs on dusty shelf
My oldest skill sets begin to decay.
Were it not for the spliffs and the poems
I’d even forget old Jeroboam

Though he should be forgotten easiest…