Sometimes I find parts of poems
ideas that have never quite coalesced
sentences without a home
and I combine them
with others of their kind
to form some Frankenstein whole
a mishmosh of monstrous pieces
built into a tower of babble
from their assorted origins.
I am rarely proud
of these works of desperation
these uninspired aspects
of half-visions, unformed on their own.
I am glad to have done something
for these orphans
but am somewhat ashamed
of what I have,
in weakness, wrought,
but still I find
these creations have their own audience
some fans who see some beauty
in their pieces.
Perhaps they don’t see the surgical lines
I can remember from those freakish births.
Maybe some simply like the parts
that have been allowed to see
the light of day
due to their adoptions.
Possibly it is the very mutations
the sense of something corrupt
coming from such bastard splicing.
Or maybe the people are just being polite.
I have many children
and I love them all
but these monsters
made from cadavers of stillborn sentences,
they are among the least
of what I have wrought.