Poets Make The Worst Lovers – Indeed – By Word Maker

So here it all begins with this chap brooding over what he should write on this blank page. Twirling and turning the pen between and amongst his fingers, he bites hard at his memory, as if he were in an exam hall.

This wasn’t helping either, so he let drop his hand upon the sheet and started to let his fingers do the job. He afforded himself the honour to write down this phrase: POETS MAKE THE WORST LOVERS – INDEED.

He stopped and stared at those choppy words staring back at him with such a stern gaze. It was as if those words will just rise out of the gleaming page and slap him in the face. If he yelled, that would make him succumb to those words.

So he quivered not and pursued his mission of translating his thoughts into tangible actions. Of course he wasn’t a poet. He had never been, and with the look of things he feared he may soon become one. He shook his head.

He let the pen do the talking now, printing the truth just at is and should always be told in all circumstances whatsoever. That was the only respite his life could afford him. Withe every word he wrote, the truer it became.

If permission be sought and approved therewith, I shall have no heed to restrain the printing of the words his heart did pour out unto that paper that salient day. It was not s despise of what he really knew. It was just natural.

 

POETS MAKE THE WORST LOVERS-INDEED

 Although I am not a poet,

I know this is so true

For if I had been one

I never would have written this.

 

Caged in a world of conceptual thinking,

They pride themselves of their prowess

To paint those flimsy love poems,

Which hardly ever won an heart for themselves.

 

Worse in itself is the doing of the art

For they translate into reality, the fictional

And ever-so-fantasy thoughts

That so much cloud their thinking.

 

Even, troubling, is of the fact that

Blind are they to the true facts that there be

And hurt the softest flowers with their weak words

Tempting others to acclaim them as heroes.

 

Oh POETS, why?

Why do you let pride overcome your weakness?

Why do you let open mindedness lie to your secrecy?

Why do you remain so closed up?

 

So good I am not a poet,

For I can say little of myself too.

Gradually, I shall know the truth – why

POETS ARE THE WORST LOVERS – INDEED.

 

He shut his mind, threw the pen away, and cried. He is now a poet. He has become one.

 

Advertisements