When one cannot convey
their inference
of knowledge through one's
writing.
One grows sad.
When one think's that what
one writes is superior,
when in fact it is not, how
does one know?
Few poet's are without ego,
and some are as big
and as heavy, as the life that
one think's one has had.
Most poet's,
suffer from some type of mental illness.
Go back and read the biography of some
of the great one's.
Hence is one willing to confront,
their own mental illness to be considered
a great one?
Those whom are untreated,
can not really grasp the significance
that this has on their writing.
So thankfully, here where it is that I live,
the trash is picked up twice a week.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I have read things that I have written that I do not recall writing, and that make no sense to me, and do not have a beautiful cadence, and seem to have no point..yet I was afraid to trash it, for fear my newest dementias could not see with a clear eye..and so my folder is stuffed with trash or treasure, and I am afraid to make the cuts myself.. Thank you for writing so clearly about something so intrinsic to being a writer..