Last week I shared how in our poetry writers group we were asked to write two poems about the writing process:1 serious and the other humorous. I shared the serious one last week, and now the humorous attempt.
The Poet That Lives Inside of Me
There's a poet living inside of me
We sometimes don't agree
My life sometimes gets in the way
Don't write a thing from March to May
But the poet living inside of me
Is writing every day
He stores these poems somewhere
He doesn't say; I do not care
But when I need to write a poem
He lets me know they're there
The poet living inside of me
It seems we're in a fight
But rather than we disagree
We know that we're both right.
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7 comments:
Dave, I love that there’s a poet inside of you secretly storing poems. I wonder if he can recognise the poets inside of others secretly gathering words and weaving them together?
Thank you for this lovely poem!
My favorite stanza is the one where the poet inside you is writing everyday. So true!
Fer sherrrrrrleeeeeeeeeeeeee
Your poem makes sense. What I don't understand is the mystical force that removes one of my socks every time I do laundry.
There certainly is a bit of mystery when it come to where poems come from. It sounds like you're we'll aware of that voice and you worked together to write that charming poem. I know poets, and maybe those who don't yet know they are poets, will certainly relate to it.
What a cool image -- the inner poet busy at work, growing a stockpile of (hidden) poems.
Just love this ongoing conversation that this flows from - the internal monologue-really a dialog. I think we all have this. Love that last line, too!
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