free verse

By the Rat

--

I haven’t been able to bring myself to write poetry recently- despite the given, that I am, in fact, a poet. Allegedly.

Should I consider myself a writer? I weave ideas together and think up intricate plots that tell stories of comedy and tragedy- more often the later. That would about sum me up if I didn’t prefer my stories be seen and not just wasted on WORDS.

Then perhaps, I best be an artist! Let me paint pictures for you- if I did not have such terrible control of my medium. I would draw my works out into a comic, that you may see every detail of my muses and their lives.

But, to tell you the truth, I’m not very good at that either.

What am I to do then?

A poet without the wit, a writer without the words and an artist without the will— oh, how dreadfully sad.

The fact that I seem to have been reduced to writing fragments only proves what I’ve been saying.

All I can do for now is to write unsavoury monologues about the cowardice of a lost little lamb; dramatizing their self-sacrifice to the point of absurdity.

That, and maybe hope someone out there would be willing to listen to a story.