I'm Not a Poet and I Know It! Humor From a Struggling Writer.

I have tried to write poetry!

Honestly, I have!

I have had many, no countless, soul-rending thoughts burning through my brain, seeking release.

Thoughts that I would have killed to put down on paper and then have it flow from my mind to my pen in perfect Rhyme.

But, alas, not me! I cannot Rhyme!

Oh, I can write short lines of thought that get my point across, and will be grammatically correct.

And, I have something of an educated vocabulary that I am not ashamed of, at all.

But, the talent of taking two, or more lines and having them make the same point using different words that rhyme, has obviously eluded me.

I can tell a decent story and as you read it, I can elicit tears or laughter, or sadness, and on occasion, even lust. But, never with any sense of rhyme.

If a true Poet and I were to be standing on a street corner and witness the same car wreck, the poet would be taking notes for the great and lofty poem that he would write from this new experience.

Me? I would be the guy telling the story of what I saw to the Cop on the scene and bringing him to tears, of laughter or sadness, whichever I desired.

And he would never hear a rhyme in my story.

Nope, I am not a Poet!

And this little thing you will now read is damning proof for all of you to observe and finally understand my plight

I am NOT a POET!

and Damn ..... do I know it!

My words are not;

Tight,

nor Concise,

nor even Light!

They flow like a sludge,

and I have to begrudge,

that I can't just make a Rhyme,

at any old damned time.

My thoughts? They do not march nor flow,

in the way every good poet should know.

They burst forth, clash, and race from my head,

without proper order, and drop onto my paper,

and seem, to a good reviewers dread,

to be nonsensical, whimsical, weak and improper.

I try but, I could not make a rhyme,

with a such a simple word as, float,

even were I to fall into some foul, smelly, Moat.

Not a chance even, I can rhyme with a dear Daisy,

I guess I'm simply ..... too dim, too slow, perhaps crazy?

I have nothing to rhyme with the marvelous; belated,

This must be why, this rhyme thing, ..... I just hate it.

No match, springs from my head, for the fair trait, Beautiful,

my addled Brain, for this, 'tis just not capable.

The poor thing, it's just not up to,

such a balanced task,

as it hides behind it's rhyme blocking mask.

This poor Brain,

it trips over the thought, of proper Prose,

from it's own cold, stifling, fear, I suppose.

A fear of making a proper Rhyme,

and packing each line

with love, action, or reason,

this blocks my cerebral core,

every time,

regardless of what anguished thoughts

I try to pass on.

I seek to breach this horrid wall,

and spew,

well matched thoughts,

on which others can chew,

in crisp, flowing, lines with a rhythm,

all could dance to.

But No,

my thoughts,

they tumble and stumble,

in my wounded brain,

so fast and so jumbled,

that I can barely capture them,

like some blowing, Summer storm's, rain,

and put them,

down, before they crumble.

Perhaps, at Free Form,

I might have a chance,

to make my words;

pirouette, leap and dance?

But even using this form,

of poetic projection,

demands much more

of my wounded Imagination.

And, as such constraints,

often tax the reader,

to submit and to say

"to Hell with this metre!",

I believe I want to sit back and think ..... a tiny bit more,

and just enjoy this ..... my fractured score!

by Don Bobbitt

Although I admit my limitations as a Rhyming poet, I do write some of my stories in Free form format.

I think this allows me to accentuate some words and phrases properly for a more powerful affect.

Check them out!