The Poor Poet, by Carl Spitzweg, 1839.

You couldn’t call it sadness,
because it’s not. Though
I guess you can call something
anything you like.
That oak tree might pass
for a teddy bear to some,
broccoli to others and
Aunt Sue to Uncle Jake.
But what I’m feeling
probably isn’t sadness.

Doesn’t sadness feel like
a gut full of vinegar-soaked knots
or a head full of mini-constrictors
crushing your brain,
squishing out the joy?
I’m sure there’s some up here.
I think I left it behind that
sheet-draped, me-looking facsimile
of oughta-shoulda-woulda.
Damn, where’d I put it?

Isn’t that sad?

One thought on “Misplaced

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