There is this idea that haunts me. Call it
a idealization, adoration,
Inspiration – it doesn’t matter much.
The fact is that it is there, looking at
me. Mocking me. Taunting Me. Telling me
tales of triumph and dalliances of
despair – fair being fair. Getting me stuck
on ideas, trying to shift gears, wiping
The concept I call for, old fashioned and
frail, hailed by this male, is romantic and
medieval, the reason why grooms wait un-
der steeples. Love is my mistress and I
her saved. It’s what pulls me to write, even
when I’m not in step. It’s what gives me hope
when I see nothing left.
It may not be much, but she gives me words.
She may not be real – I may sound absurd.
But I speak from my heart and many don’t.
I put myself out there when many won’t.
This is why I write.
I wrote this for a prompt series I just found that looks kind of cool. Check it out. The intent of this was to be total blank verse but I started rhyming at the end. The syllable’s match up (except the end lines) so I’m still counting it.