I find that I am forever composing verse
Only I write it solely in my mind
Should it never be recorded there would be no dearth
The point is not posterity, but simply to romp with rhyme.
What form do I want to play with today?
Sonnet, perhaps? Or blank verse? Or maybe Confessional?
Which movement will carry my words in such a way
As to render them potent, even exceptional?
I am aware that much of my work is singularly trite:
I adore rhyme and quatrains are my bread and butter;
Still, I long to experiment with what I write:
I dream of writing like Eliot, he of Prufrock and none other.
One hundred and thirty five lines
Spent wandering the corridors of an insecure mind;
So…. Shall I part my hair behind?
Will the mermaids sing to me? Is it finally my time?