O, Originality! Art thou as real as thee may seem?
Or doth thou lie only ‘twixt a hope, and a dreary dream?
Hold I the skill to crack thy shell, coddle so soft a yoke?
Or will my blunder’ng pen pierce thee once thy chest hath broke?
How I desire to swaddle thee, despite my mind so clogged
As rambling rivers dammed, and laced by a fog like smoke;
For my poetic streams flow from mountain tops of stammer’ng lips
Down tight canyons, through writer’s bog, forming lines: waterlogged.


Could such a rare treasure e’er found be on canoeing trips?
Or art thou only at roaring sea, which strips planked ribs of ships?
If so, I’d beg phonetic wind to speak unto my paper sails
A heaving breath as mighty as those of ancient, great blue whales.
Tell me, Originality! Has what I’m writing, in the past, been said?
For I so dread to repeat already told tall tales.
Repetition swells a fear, so crippling, halting, stagnant,
Hindering what I wish to write – thus sink my poems like lead.

Alas, perhaps, with a drop of luck, while lost at sea or River bent
Thou’ll speak to me, Originality, and leave me with a fragment;
And that mere splash, grain of sea born salt, ‘twould be enough to gloss
What e’er I wish to write, and give my hand a map when at a loss.
With such a chart, and clear a line of sight to the North Star,
I could find my way through woeful water, until met by thee, an Albatross.
And upon my chapped and breathless chest, thou would leave to lie
So sweet an egg – Originality – for which I’ve searched so far.

O, what I’d do for thee, Originality! If for but mere the chance to hear thy lullaby –
To prompt a thought, one new and taut, with which to write a poem, before I die.

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