Mr Farnsley

This happened today. Some huge epiphany. I cannot write poems.. but I do write poetry.

Sitting in a sea of green,
peppered by tiny imperfect flecks of white,
I sit,

and I talk to a man,
a man of around fifty,

and he tells me of his life as a poet.

We talk about rhyme,
and rhythm and iambic pentameter,

We talk of structure,
and form,
and the manipulation of language,

And this is all meaningless.

It is meaningless, because

I no longer feel it.

 

The desire to write has left me desolate,
Pen poised to paper with so many
Techniques to use,
structures to follow,

Words to abuse and manipulate,
until they sit on the paper,
in organized chaos,

the man and I,

We sit and we discuss poems,

we talk about language,
and structure and form,
and rhyme and rhythm and
everything else that makes a poem,
a poem,

 

But we do not talk of poetry.

The End

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