When the Poets Run Out of Things to Say

The saddest word

I ever heard

I heard of just today

that loving her

was to defer

more love to self some way.

How crude,

how worn,

how deep forlorn

that view of love so flawed!

How evident

of life that’s spent

in vanity’s own fraud.

If only you

could see right through

that lie you’re holding close

then you might see


it’s not love that you’ve imposed . . .



Can’t quite call it puzzling

if I already know the answer.

Still, the how keeps me up some nights

and the why perplexes me.

It all falls into place

as I watch bewildered.

It all connects

as I wildly wonder

about the chaos.

I can’t piece the peace together

or place the picture properly.

Can’t quite call it puzzling

when the finished work

is there.

But could it be complete?

Like a corner piece

with four connecting sections–

joy amid the turmoil.


Cold Hands

There is a feeling

as if the purest oxygen

filled your lungs

when she is near.

I was lost in a trance

but heard all the mimes and monks

sing Che Gelida Manina

as loud as they could

just to get her attention.

Cold hands indeed, Puccini,

for the warmth is a raging furnace

in her heart.

I’ll not be Rodolfo; please don’t be Mimi.

I’ll take your hand

if you want me to,

only if you want me to.

But I’ll still sing love in my heart.


The Ailment and the Remedy

I always thought that it would be easy

to run out of words

to convey a single theme,

a single idea,

a single person from

the endless crowds.

I thought it would be easy

and I thought that I’d forget you.

I thought a lot

but it was nothing at all

while the subjects spoke freely

without my help.

I thought it would be easy to stop

yet I can’t seem to separate

the pen from the paper

even when–or even especially when–

I want to.

Good or bad, come what may . . .

I write


Unnatural Conjunction

I have tried a hundred ways

and will try a hundred more

to convey silence

in a poem,

how it is peaceful,

how it hurts,

how it feels right,

how it lacks finality

with that vacant space

left where a thought should be,


never sounds right in words.

It is heard

and therein lies the problem.



Help me out here y’all. Can you capture what I’m trying to say? Are there things you find hard to put in words?

If you give it a go for either question, I’d love to see what you came with!

Occasional Prose · Stuff

Meet the Author: C. E. Knight

I know I have made some totally not-desperate pleas in the past (they might have been a little desperate in hindsight) to have my good friend C. E. come back. Though a busy man, these last few weeks have given him opportunity to write once more and I could not be more thrilled. You may have noticed his name show up as an author on the Unnecessary Blog these last few days and so I wanted to have him introduce himself to all of you wonderful readers. And so, without further ado:

C. D. — Introduce yourself in your own words.

C. E. — Hello readers, this is C.E. Knight, a writer who is ready to take you on the unpredictable and ever evolving adventure that is life through poetry and maybe a short story or two. My goal is to bring something new to the table each time you read one of my stories, and maybe give you some deep, thought provoking questions about life or just the work in general.

Continue reading “Meet the Author: C. E. Knight”