The Unfinished Poem

Often I’m a poet who talks too much;
perhaps it’s how it’s all designed;
maybe, with reality, I’m out of touch;
with too much to say, on my mind.

I attempt to boldly say what I think;
but, there is too much to say;
broaching a subject; I get to the brink;
then, save the rest for another day.

A great poem on life, is never ending;
but a great poet, I’ll never be;
much too often; my words are offending;
speaking of truth; others just see.

A poem is a picture; the panoply of life;
as we walk life’s path together;
hoping mere words can bring truth to light;
but, such words would take forever.

A poem is merely reality put to word;
sometimes it’s a whimsical tale;
very often it can border on the absurd;
that fools just love to regale.

It’s been said, brevity is the soul of wit;
but, how could that ever be;
putting together, everything I’ve writ;
there’s even more to say and see.

And, so I must write till the ink runs out;
I can’t finish; for I’ll never quit;
I can’t complete my poem; what life’s about;
my soul lacks both brevity and wit.

Monty 10/21/23. # 1,828