Logorrhea

Even the best poets write too much—

They can't help themselves. Then,

Somehow, their poems may get published.

Reading them there, they blush inwardly:

As Dr Johnson said of Milton's Paradise Lost:

“None ever wished it longer than it is.”

Who wants a prequel to Goethe's Faustus

Or desires a sequel toThe Waste Land?

Perhaps it was to stem the inexhaustible flow of his Dream Songs

That John Berryman jumped off that bridge.

Emily Dickinson was the wise one,

Who wrote her lines on scraps of paper

And stuck them in her bedside drawer.

I'm no beau of Amherst Street, but

I'm as fortunate. No one will publish me!

Writing my verses on my phone, I release them

Into the uncharted wilderness of the Internet

And watch them race off into the darkening jungle, whispering:

“¡Adiós! Go with God! Goodbye!”

There’s nothing like obscurity to help a poem fly!