with high sugar, bp
and other physical plights
the poet writes
through the
dysfunctional ears, myopic eyes
the poet types
in an armchair, with a
stick that wobbles
the poet scribbles
with wilting legs,
quivering hands
the poet dares to
stand
despite migraine and
toothache, the poet giggles
the words on those
pages scrawl, squiggle
despite wars in the
air
in every corner
stony tones that joke
and smirk
the jerk, with the restless
mind
writes
what drives the poet,
no one knows
would the poems
anywhere go
to the insane, matters
the least
out in the sun or in
foggy mist
drying, drizzling, or pouring
tools aiding or ailing
the writing continues
of the sighs and the
hues
in the world around
with the spirit of wonder
yet untapped, unbound
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