Why do it?

I ask myself constantly why I want to write, and specifically why I want to write poetry.  I've never fully understood it.  There are times, not frequently any more, when the urge is almost overwhelming.  I can remember when I was younger, when I would HAVE to write something, in order to stay sane.  Not that I regard sanity as all that it's cracked up to be.  Someone said that to be fully adjusted to an insane world is NOT a sign of mental health, and I believe it.  The world is a mess, the concept of a relationship usually involves a computer now, and nobody talks face-to-face if they can avoid it.  I'm not sure if that's a matter of choice or a matter of available time, though.  Everyone is so busy doing things now.  It's like nobody can stop for a few minutes and talk, because if they do, they'll be late for the next thing they have to do.  I guess I'm very lucky in that regard that I'm taking my retirement in the middle.  As soon as I finish school, I plan to get a job and hold it until they carry me out of it.  In the meantime, I'm going to continue to write, although I'm not doing a great job of that.  Most of the stuff I'm posting here was written in the past.  I'll run out of it soon, and have to start creating again.  I know we're all looking forward to that. 

I was in a pretty weird mood when I wrote this one.  Let me know what you think.

A hot loaf of poet

Lemme have a hot loaf of poet

steaming, if you have one

nothing satisfies like a fresh one

right out of the oven

He was from so far down south

he was up to here with it

full of ya'll and yes'um's

dripping off him like bird shit

he'd appreciate a hunk too

you don't slice bread, you break it

like you break poets

uneven, unleavened, unclean

take a hunk of poet

dip it in some butter

or gravy, or anything

improve the taste some

better to bake it fresh

eat it hot out of the pan

add a sprig of honeysuckle

stuffed up your nose

copyright 2010 Carl Thames