Ink Envy

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: August 25, 2018

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Submitted: August 25, 2018

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There are, within me, mediocre musings hoping high, hollow,

That perhaps the greatest statues started simply as rough as I.

For when I wander waking halls hallowed with high works, follow

The whispering wind sending me forward, golden glory surrounds

Me as I, a mouse among men, fawn over and awe, glower, my

Face turns down, crestfallen, like the sun at twilight whispering goodnight sounds.

Printed onto gilded sheets are the works of weighty greats, while

On tattered scrolls I scribble down, with ink-stained lips and fingertips,

A myriad of different words, wondering if they’re worth an inch or a mile

Or simply not worth it at all, in comparison to the conquering wordsmiths

Who, with word play, take my breath away with little to say, with tricks

And tactics of words galore that I so desperately implore myself: learn it.

Take my scrolls of dusty letters and tether them down, for they drift

To places in which my mind floats freely, in dark rooms envying you all

Who create the most blessed of art, poetry - simply, masterfully, and fit -

While I strive to simply create a readable palate that has something

To do with anything. Like marble unchiseled I wonder if I, too, am a statue tall

Waiting to be hammered out into a poet wonderful whose words rhyme and ring and sing.

Perhaps fate has set a course for each of us on a windy ocean. For me,

I yearn to sail that course of different kind and become a poet - wild. Free.

 


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