I’m a poet of no consequence.
The flora of language resides
Not in these hands of mine.
I’ve not the – concentration
For greatness...
A creativity chained by imagination,
Discipline lacking in the art,
I’ll find my inspiration here
And lose it three lines down a page.
Pathetic artistry...
You mock the painter of paintings
That are never finished or refined,
But there is no greater sorrow
Than the dampening of that spark
Of mastery...
I dream of Epic and create the transient.
Pitiful short stories translated in meter,
Talent is lost in the blankness.
Between my stanzas and my heart,
Embarrassing silence...
If there is hope for women like me,
Who cannot temper the urge of passion
Yet have no control of expression
In lines of verse and rhyme,
Cure me.
Author notes
Regret over my own impediment in writing
Written February 17th, 2005
What did you think
Comments
-
Better.
-K -
Um, okay. You start off really strong. Then... there's your last stanza. I never did like the mixing of formal and informal voice.
My absolutely favorite lines:
"You mock the painter of paintings
That are never finished or refined"
I also think this poem would benefit from punctuation. Some poems don't need it and shouldn't have it, but I think this one does. Only because I think it would help keep things straight, and it would add to your character. This is a poem of YOU speaking.
I like your metaphors/similes. Great job.
-K
Edited on Feb 17, 8:25 p.m. because 'of a typo'.
Adding your comment:
