Prolific poetsA Poem by Relic
They often seem to
harvest original ideas on schedule as though a sun that never sinks aids their metaphorical seeds to sprout, germinate, and bloom all within one day. The picked fruits of their similes, their tropes, are repeatedly ripe and tasty, hardly bruised; their narratives immune to the flies of misinterpretation. I envision vast rolling fields in their minds presenting rows of irrigated concepts, as the crop is quickly prepared, picked, stored, weighed measured, and shipped out ready to be consumed. And yet, here I am with a pen pulling weeds from empty pages. I pace back and forth through the dustbowl of diction trying to figure out my own figurative language, the vegetables of verse nowhere to be found. The only symbolism I can sprout is a look of confusion and resignation. My hoe is hopeless my plow profitless. Those prolific poets, sometimes I loathe them.
© 2024 RelicAuthor's Note
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Added on May 27, 2024Last Updated on October 29, 2024 Tags: Humor Author
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