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Pandora's Box Of Sunday Delight Poetry is a lot like sex;
It takes on many forms,
It leaves both people wanting more,
While being spontaneous.
Not all poetry is spontaneous though,
Some takes work,
And pounding away
Into the wee hours of the morning
For very little reward at the end,
Only leaving exhaustion,
Shame, and the thought that it's all
Inadequate.
Time will change what you
Time will change what you define in the last two lines. The exhaustion may still be there; but the shame will turn into contentment and the thought of inadequacy will change to acceptance. I cite, in support of my suggestion, two poems by the great American poet, Wallace Stevens: "The Planet On The Table," and "Final Soliloquy Of The Interior Paramour."
Starward