by Jim Murdoch
All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling. To be natural is to be obvious, and to be obvious is to be inartistic. – Oscar Wilde
Sometimes it hurts.
Sometimes, not so much.
I suppose sometimes
it forgets to hurt but still
I imagine the hurt.
I expect to hurt, I…
I deserve to hurt. I have
earned this hurt,
every last ache, twinge,
throb and pang.
Yeah, no, can I stop you there?
I’m sorry, I was on a roll. And you are?
Just a poetry lover and this is…
What? Spit it out.
Kinda… self-indulgent.
Excuse me?
All the chest-beating; it’s so…
I was going for honest.
…been there before. Sad.
Yeah, but it’s a poetic sadness.
Nah. It’s just a sad one.
Well, that took the wind out of my sails.
It’s… poetry without the poetry.
Straight for the jugular, eh?
You should… go.
I’ll just… yeah… I know the way.
Wanker. Where was I?
But sometimes, rarely,
we meet a new hurt.
Like the achy version
of true love.
Yeah, that works; poetic as shit.
© 2025 Jim Murdoch All rights reserved.
‘Poeticus Interruptus I’ can be found in ‘Lives, Lived and Unlived’ and other poems
Click or tap here to see Jim Murdoch’s profile.
Use the “Leave a Comment” form below to submit comments on this piece.