Too many moments of reckless abandon,
putting down incoherent thoughts on paper.
Expecting miracles from unedited chaos.
I have these stillborn poems in battered journals,
like rows of jars with foetuses in a scientific labarotary.
Experiments with words gone hideously wrong.
And yet I keep on creating my monsters.
Some are missing a soul, others have a hideous form.
Does anyone know why I keep on trying?
Keep on writing.
As if it will somehow morph into a princess.
I don't see no fairy Godmother.
I don't see the point yet I keep on going on.