Are they words, or experience?
Or thoughts, or things?
That in instants
Transform life and what it brings
Moments those have had
Those who write these
Good or bad
Did Master Byron feel every one?
Every wrote word he penned,
Every rhyme scheme,
O, many Sonnets he’d send
And Shakespeare every metaphor
Every image He painted,
With quill
Relating the entire mind that impended?
Are these verses of talent?
A certain aptitude arisen?
I wonder,
Instinct,
Ability
By obsession, are we driven?
I know, to write is what we feel
What we yearn
Yet sometimes,
Oftentimes I wonder,
Is it real?
Are these people we are told are better?
Those pasted in our anthologies,
Their expectations of us to memorize every letter:
Seamus Heaney,
A mood setter,
Life in a farm
Claiming it couldn’t get any better.
He digs with a pen
And I understand,
But it’s all to do with caring...
Could I really be as daring
As to say
Concerning our post modern literature
My view of it
Tis Petty
