Untitled

 Splendidly, Cocky

Absurd, but true

Tear ya apart

Stuck to it like glue

(I rhymed without meaning to)

 

It’s funny what life shapes for you

Or rather how shaped by life you are;

Not to sound exclusive, but I am

included in that you

 

Are we along for the ride?

I used to be, but now take the reigns

Excuse me, I’m new

                                    To knowing

 

Knowing to drive, not just how,

To shape and be shaped un-passively

 

Am I good, are you?

Who says and is it true?

Free flowing worlds or structured rhymes

Raw talent or practiced hands, refined

 

Who was SHAKESPEARE

Before his plays, his fame?

A boy dragging a satchel

-a satchel of words yet unused

 

Plath, dead Plath, misused,

Maybe by her own hands,

Her mind refused, by who?

not you

But it did find its way diffused

 

There I go, rhyming again

With authors from the past,

My past, claiming their invocation

Lacking acquaintance with their hands

Their images, kiln-fired by words, not mine,

 theirs

 

Gods held up on shelves

But real people once or

So we thought.

 

Myth—held onto religiously.

Who says it is not true?