Just beginning to realise how dull a task writing poetry can really be
I mean, I know there are those of you who truly do love the craft, but I fear that I’m not one of them
Spending the day glued to my pen, not what I want anymore, was it even what I wanted in the first place?
I mean, I don’t even like to read, never, ever have, and maybe this is it, the finish line for me, a few good poems, quite possibly a great one added to the mix
I just don’t know if they need to rhyme or not, if that does, in fact, leave the writer appearing rather soft
Either way, I gave it one helluva shot
And now my time has come to move on to something else, something that brings a little more relief
I did indeed use it for a crutch ’til such time as I was beginning to feel better, and now that I do, kind of anyway, I have to thank you, poetry, thanks for your time
I wish I could say that it really was sublime but not so much, as I make plain and obvious in a few of the lines above, you were no more than a crutch
No more, no less, I did all that an impatient bastard like I could do so as to impress people
Sold a few poems, got inside a magazine or two, maybe three, but it really isn’t what I want to be spending my day doing
Just isn’t, never was, really, it’s a crux of sorts, I looking for everyone and their mother to take to my stuff
Tough, seems even if you are as good as they say that you still need to trudge through your day regardless
This is the thing, less about trying to impress, more about finding a nine-to-five job, one that fills my time, something far more productive, far, far more sublime
