A Poet's Confusion

By: Joshua A. Apolonio

This is the time. Yes, surely this is.

But I don’t know what I will express.

Yeah. That’s it! I knew what it is.

My goodness, my idea’s gone on bliss.

I’m confused on what will I write.

What poet now can I be called?

My brain is currently like an egg white.

Clearly confused, not in the mood to write.

Yeah, maybe I’m not really that good.

But how can you call me now?

Maybe giving up is what I do should,

Or stop these nonsense, I would.

Is this really the right and correct time?

Or maybe it’s just a blinder.

Is really a poet have a million dime?

Is that I need? What I only eat is lime.

I’m poor. Yes, Oh, yes. I’m poorer than a rat.

What a poet can do? I can’t write any longer.

Thousand mouths to feed all here are not fat,

I need to prioritize, whatever happens, and all that.

Do I still have to write? Yes, that’s my passion.

Confusion strikes, that’s what I have to disown.

If this be followed, I’ll have the joy that goes on,

And I’ll follow it, surely it will be my profession.