It started with a book
an unreadable behemoth
of drawn out chapters
Then there was rambling prose and free verse
giving way to a gallant return to novel writing
Composed in a mosaic of colored glass
but with the ultimate fatal flaw
A writer’s apathy
So I let it drop and shatter
Decaying at the bottom of my midnight soul
giving birth to a light fearing story
Growing without growing up
Writing with no end
an infinite, meandering jaunt
To overcome meant to end
And to end meant the practice
of a thousand “The Ends”
But “The End” cannot be had
without “Once upon a times”
So new beginnings were crafted
from the spirits of past poems
venturing deeper into the realm of short works
But as the water deepens
and the word count grows
so does the fear of never ending
sending me back to the swifter ends of poetry.
I have been feeling guilty about the amount of poetry I am writing. I know I need to practice writing more short stories, so I can apply what I learn from the practice to writing longer works.
But I can’t shake the poet off my back. When I decided to write about my years of writing (and not writing), it spewed out in poetry. A convenient, condensed summary.
The struggle continues with the silver lining that I am still writing.
Thank you for listening/reading.