my rhizomatic unfinished sonnet (note: internal rhyming scheme is an invasive weed that chokes and breeds…)

The poet does not write and read, non-plussed,
For mere applause. His rhythms and his notes
Might give you pause: for him it’s true relief.
Approval is not the cause, nor the end
Of his efforts. He writes because he must:
An unformed phrase, a clause not spoken
Is like an Albatross that gives him grief
Until he edits out its flaws and sends
It to a waiting world of laws and dust.
He draws the strength from deep within: a lust
That gnaws at his soul and never grants respite,
Nor takes flight, nor withdraws to sleep at night.

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