Poetry
I stopped writing poetry
One year seven months ago.
I ran away from the rhythms and rhymes
When I realized what poetry was.
I felt so silly and childlike
With my thee's and thou's.
I felt so ashamed
That I ever wrote.
I had felt neither love
Nor the pain it brings.
Yet my words sought in vain
To shape their intangible forms.
But Chance, nay, a stray mouse click
Brings me back to the world of old.
I reread my so-called poetry,
And a smile crawls onto my wisened lips.
I didn't know what poetry was,
But I knew the joy it brings.
I might not surpass my mediocrity,
But I need not exile myself from words.
I love the forms and sounds and rhymes,
All dancing to the rhythm of a foreign tongue.
String those wonders with imagery,
And there, you've got my poetry.
Ramblings thoughts
In the middle of the night,
Shafts of sharp emotion,
Plucks from a off-tune lyre.
I know what the classics are,
I've read Cummings and Frost.
But before I am shamed to silence,
Remind me what poetry can be -
Remind me that poetry
(Or whatever else this is)
Has served to simply capture in words,
My whims, feelings and fantasies.
By Lady of Scartha
© 2005 Lady of Scartha
(All rights reserved)
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