Thoughts

The Bard

So you fancy yourself a poet?

"Ay!" they cry, "Ay!"

"Nay," I sigh.

For ne'er there was such a poet as I,

entirely as lonesome and ludicrous as a great winged sparrow;

contriving rhymes with no rhythm and stanzas with no lines.

So you fancy yourself a poet?

"Ay?" I inquire.

Raise an eyebrow, portray your deference.

Converse in such a matter as to offend no one

and in doing so,

please no one.

Dully go about life's many chores,

follow the beaten path.

Read as I am instructed to read,

write what I must write.

I tell you my work comes from the heart.

"Where is your motivation?"

"The Earth turns every day, without due cause. Must I have a specified incentive?"

Laugh at the wittiness,

depart feeling dissatisfied.

Go and compose a diddy of longing and hope, for a world where someone could understand me.

Fall into a restless sleep, full of adventurous dreams.

Journal your dreams until you realize that none of it matters, and no, you will never write a novel, not even a book of poems, based off of this dream, you won't be interviewed on a talk show to tell how your writing entwined with your dreams, how this novel was really a product of the deepest and darkest part of your brain. No.

So you fancy yourself a poet?  

So do I.