O poets, who ceaselessly, constantly write,
sitting there, tireless, far into the night
addressing your poems to god knows who
(and she/he ain’t telling).
When will you desist?
Give up?
Renounce the fight?
Take the first flight out of here.
Get away, take a break; a change of air
is what you need. Just the thing
for a heart that bleeds and tears that burn
for all you’ll never say or do or learn
and all the souls you’ll never save.
The grave is very deep and dark and long
so leave your grievous mourning
and turn instead to lighter things.
Besides, you know it doesn’t pay.
You’ve got to grow up one of these days
and accept your responsibilities. Live a normal life.
Be more like the rest—don’t feel so damn much.
No wonder you always look miserable,
always in love, always in pain.
The reign of the artist is over
it’s Science that’s conquering now.
So be a little more practical, a little less lyrical.
Don’t be so emotional, control your physical needs.
Switch off the person and turn on the robot
and march with mindless, mechanical step
with the rest of us, into oblivion

© Copyright Alexandra Innes Oct. 10 1979



Photo by Possessed Photography on Unsplash