The path is long and climbs Through woods I hate to see. And yet I go there constantly, Symptom of who I hate to be. In slow-motion I walk along Knowing where the thing will lead. The walking is more tolerable Than not walking it would be. I'm isolated on this path, Though others have been here. I search the path for company, A response that I will never see. Walking on this path Provides me time to think. And yet the sounds of it Prevent all thought and peace. I climb this lonely path of mine, Symptom of who I hate to be. My dad did this before me, This familial idiocy. **************** I wrote this poem from a prompt on pw.org, the Web site of Poets & Writers. I opened a book at random, then chose a word from the page, then did it 9 more times and wrote 10 couplets, each containing one of the words. The book I picked without seeing the title was Migraine, by Oliver Sacks. I am not sure what the poem is about, but my dad and I both get migraines, so that might have been in the back of my mind. Let me know what you think. |
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