A poet but he most certainly didn’t know it, never, something a little different, for sure, hard to understand because he had simply hated the whole charade over the course of his time at school
It definitely wasn’t cool, the opposite, in fact, whichever poet he might try to read his wayward mind always seemed to go irritatingly off track, were the likes of Heaney, Wordsworth and their words really any good, or simply no more than slack at best, either way the real readers out there turned out mega impressed
Thinking about it now, he wishes he could take it all back, his hatred of the written word
Absurd, seeing as this was exactly what he wanted to do, the problem is this, he finds himself worrying about every single sentence, newly constructed words only ever meeting the page short of magnificent, in an embarrassing slew, and even if he did start to sell his own poems what if there came a time when the warriors of the art finally admitted that they had always smelt a rat