Diary of a Poet

A Diary of a Poet
R. Meuser  


My mind had diarrhea
early this morning.
It pooped out four poems
without any warning.

The writing was good
but not real great.
I could have stopped it all
with a spoon of Kaopecktate.

First there was one
and then there were two.
The fingers holding my pen
started turning blue.

I thought I was done
what more could there be?
Then came an inspiration
suddenly, the count was three.

I was so tired
my arm was sore.
Bang! I wrote another
the total was four.

The dilemma I was in
was plain to see.
The Kaopecktate didn’t work
should I take Imodium AD?

My hand started shaking
my brow became wet.
Oh no, could there be
another poem yet?

My eyes were sleepy
my hand grew numb.
Then suddenly I felt
another thought come.


As I go on
the numbers don’t jive
I’ve added one more.
Now the count is five.

Am I going crazy?
You may think I’m on the boarder.
But we poets know
this is a natural disorder.

As I grow weary
of this poetic crappin
I fear it’s not over
because poems just happen.