The Sun

Restless
By Linda A. Copp

The sun comes up,
I'm restless to do,
All the things
I've been wanting to.

The sun comes up,
jump out of bed,
Start writing, down,
the things in me head.

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But, the rhymes don't work,
my storybooks there.
I'm doodling pictures,
I'm lost, gone somewhere.

Can't seem to work
no matter how hard I try.
Nothing to say,
no words, none have I.

And the mornings gone,
the afternoon too.
And the times being stolen,
and wasted, it's true.

And I'll grieve when it's gone
but, now, that it's come,
it seems all my efforts
are silly and dumb.

For who am I,
who cares what I feel,
Does it matter at all,
these words or these feelings, I feel?

Does it count in the end
if I wasted or not,
For who reads the rhymes,
who cares what I thought.

And still it's so, silly
and the sun's going down,
I'm quiet, I'm wordless,
Would be poet, half clown.

And my life's in Tomorrow,
it's promised to her uncertainty,
Still when she comes I wonder,
if she'll remember, me.

By Linda A. Copp
 © June 24, 1971



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