Scribbles

The Poet

Poet: 'Did you feel that?'

Friend: 'Feel what?'

Poet: 'The wind! You felt that too right?'

Friend: 'Yes of course. Why wouldn't I? I'm out here with you.'

Poet: 'Yes! But what a natural movement it is! But we cannot see or guess where or when it shall pass us. But I can feel it as I feel you. Yet I can see you! What a strange and magnificent world we reside in.'

Friend: 'You know... You certainly are a strange one.'

Poet: 'Naturally.'

The poet embraced his friends words as a compliment of higher proportion.

For he knew he was different.

He didn't know why exactly or how.

But it had something to do with his over examination of everything.

Similar to an artist he can evaluate a situation.

But he does not turn to paints as he prefers to use words.

But this does not make him a writer.

For long hours being seated leads to dreadful boredom.

Poet: 'How is one supposed to be inspired from the seated position in a box? Is he to dream till he is entranced and forced to create? That sounds maddening within itself.'

The temptation of an adventure is strong in a poet.

To see.

To feel.

And to learn.

Driving factors to what brings a poets words in order.

He refuses to clutter paper with long, arbitrary sentences, for he knows emotion can be captured in just a handful of words.

He feeds on emotion to sculpt his brief sentences.

Poet: 'A life without feeling, is a life unfelt.'

He leaves his readers to interpret his words as they desire.

If they make sense,

Or not,

He does not bother to think of either.

For he intended to have his reader decipher his encryption.

I'm hopes of a reader to react with a level of emotion to these selected words.

Poet: 'Oh how carefully I select each word. Each syllable. Each rhyme. As if I am Jesus Christ himself, and these letters are my chosen disciples.'

He does not care if he rhymes or not.

For the outcome is all the same and so too is the goal.

To capture ones attention for a moment.

And let them think.