My exploration of limericks, stanzas started
at poets drawn from shavings of high ambition.
Fragmented dreams, misplaced desires
etched with ink onto my Incomplete storyboard.
Rhymes and iambic pentameter
bored me – it was the thrust of emotion
that I loved, craved .
Pages to fill me with every word
then bleed me after every line.
I wrote seeds of hate and loneliness
few of joy, but all of passion.
Mindless copies of “I Am Nobody’s” and
“Quoth the Raven’s.”
I found the juxtaposition of
grinding my strengths against short comings
to spark against the madness.
Looking to capture years in #2 lead;
plastering emotions for the world
there will always be another
more creative a quicker wit.
With the wisdom of falling beauty queen,
I came of age
I grew up betwixt twangs of grief
bridges of unfathomable bliss if only for a few pages.
Does anyone even use betwixt anymore?
Desperate for relief but begging for attention
I started measuring my life in feet and meters.
These cocked moments now written in ballads
a soap-operatic alliteration of events
hoping for a different result – insanity .
I found comfort in the syntax of Chaucer
the woeful song sang in Shakespeare
I was praised for alliteration
only it happened once
the melancholy of Milton and Marvell—
I was told I’m cynical 9th grade
I would think it started earlier.
I hated following my early teachings
they said, “Make it rhyme”—
follow the beat of your words
make it a stitch in time,
I have another “Modest Proposal,”
one I made when I found my voice in poetry—
screw the rules of the past
I am not who I was
screw the negativities of ‘what-if’s’
they can be changed;
screw those in my present
who bring me down—
I refuse to fall with them.