• O, to be a poet!
    To be the one to know it,
    the words.
    Supposedly.

    Strands of incomplete tales,
    spoken to the knighting-gales
    never to be conceived by ears.
    Endlessly.

    Songs to be sung
    to a shower head, and strum
    to a wall. But never done.
    Constantly.

    Walls of silent ideas, waves
    of thoughts to be craved
    by other authors. Not beckoned; unwanted.
    Sneakily.

    Undermined by procrastination,
    words never to reach their location;
    the paper under the sword.
    Unfortunately.

    O, to be a poet!
    To be the one to know it,
    the words.
    Supposedly.