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Array
(
[sid] => 178720
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => A Too Formidable Endeavour
[time] => 2014-07-06 12:45:06
[hometext] => What happens when my pen grows ambition
[bodytext] => My fingers stall.... How to wrap them into the tapping, producing the poem summing up all; reducing deducing the ebb and the flow to that almighty summation, in apathy waiting, just behind that invisible wall. An hour of staring, no answers appearing- a sentence retracted, redacted times beyond number; with silence so blaring, a cosmos unsparing, perhaps there's a reason this summation so slumbers. One might as well write of glorious love, Though of this all knowing pie I hope to be baking, as grand as love is, it's 'ere but a slice. This endeavor I've set, lofty indeed, With hours expired, fool that I am, rube I must be- Millions of pens, (my ego forgot) from charcoal on reeds to Monte Blanc perfection and all in between, have grappled and wrastled, just as I am- But yay and hooray! I've found my way free! Down with my pen, (my yard beckons you see- I heard the grass calling, now don't laugh at me), thus now I confess, my ego at rest, (ever good) as of course it should be, I say to the sky and things without ears I can't do in an hour what far greater minds have failed to find in millions of years; I may be a poet, though still just a man, penning this pie a slice at a time; the summation so great, I'm afraid it must wait for that curtain to part when I kick the can. [comments] => 3 [counter] => 200 [topic] => 7 [informant] => invierno [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => HumorPoetry )
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