First thing ever posted on here, please review.

----- equals a stanza break

disclaimer: Mine, mine, all mine. Please give credit where credit is due, thanks.

I’m not a poet.

I’ve a writer’s mind that

Won’t back down.

I can’t get through a

Day without snatches

Of dialogue winding up

On any convenient sheet of paper

Within reach…

Even if it isn’t convenient, I

Write it down anyway.

It remains in my head, floating,

Expanding, growing like a—

A virus. Is it contagious? I’m

Not sure. But I don’t think mania, obsession,

Or insanity is contagious.

-----

I’m crazy…

Didn’t you know? You think my stories

And plot points are separated from me

Like a child is separated from a new

Toy at the mall by that cruel, cold,

Fingerprint-smeared glass window.

My aspirations are those of the blank

Page, the words waiting to be written, the

Pen poised and ready. Prose is my favored

Expression; I live, breathe, become my

Characters; their problems are mine, their

Hopes and dreams are mine, their failures

(And successes) are mine. My stories are

Never-ending metaphors (…or allegories?

I can’t remember) of my life.

-----

I told you I wasn’t a poet.

I’ve a writer’s mind that

Won’t back down.