I'm NOT a POET and I KNOW it!

I have tried to write poetry!

Honestly, I have!

I have had many, no countless, soul rending thoughts burning through my brain, seeking release. Thoughts that I would have killed to put down on paper and have it flow from my mind to my pen in perfect Rhyme.

But, alas, not me! I cannot Rhyme!

Oh, I can write short lines of thought that get my point across, and that are grammatically correct. And, I have an educated vocabulary that I am not ashamed of, at all.

But, the talent of taking two, or more lines and having them make the same point using different words that rhyme, has obviously eluded me.

I can tell a decent story and as you read it, i can elicit tears or laughter, or sadness, and on occasion, even lust. But, never with any sense of rhythm.

If a true Poet and i were to be standing on a street corner and witness the same car wreck, the poet would be taking notes for the great and lofty poem that he would write from the experience.

Me? I would be the guy tell the story of what I saw to the Cop and bringing him to tears, of laughter or sadness, whichever I desired.

And never a rhyme in my story.

Nope, i am not a Poet! And this little thing you will now read is damning proof for you all to read.

I am NOT a POET!

and Damn ..... do I know it!

My words are not;

Tight,

nor Concise,

nor Light!

They flow like a sludge,

and I have to begrudge,

that I can't just make a Rhyme,

at any old damned time.

My thoughts? They do not march nor flow,

in the way every good poet should know.

They burst forth, clash, and race from my head,

without proper order, and drop onto my paper,

and seem, to a good reviewers dread,

to be nonsensical, whimsical, weak and improper.

I try but, I could not make a rhyme,

with a such a simple word as, float,

even were I to fall into some foul, smelly, Moat.

Not a chance even, I can rhyme with a dear Daisy,

I guess I'm simply ..... too dim, too slow, even crazy!

I have nothing to rhyme with the marvelous; belated,

This must be why, this rhyme thing, ..... I just hate it.

No match springs from my head, for the fair trait, Beautiful,

my addled Brain instead, for this, 'tis just not capable.

The poor thing, it's just not up to, such a balanced task,

as it hides behind it's verbally blocking mask.

This Brain, it trips over the thought of proper Prose,

from it's own cold, stifling, fear, I suppose.

A fear of making a proper Rhyme,

and packing each line with love, action, or reason,

this blocks my cerebral core, every time,

regardless of what anguished thoughts I try, to pass on.

I seek to breach this horrid wall, and spew,

well packed thoughts, on which others can chew,

in crisp, flowing, lines with a rhythm, all could dance to.

But No,

my thoughts, they rumble and tumble,

in my wounded brain, so fast and so jumbled,

that I can barely capture them,

like some blowing, Summer storm's, rain,

and put them,

down, before they crumble.

Perhaps, at Free Form, I might have a chance,

to make my words; pirouette, leap and dance?

But even using this form, of poetic projection,

demands much more of my wounded Imagination.

And, as such constraints, often tax the reader,

to submit and to say "to Hell with this metre!",

I believe I want to sit back and think ..... a tiny bit more,

and just enjoy this ..... my fractured score!

by Don Bobbitt

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