It's so hard to compete
with well shaped human form.
My lines are all bulky,
uneven, and lumpy.
I've no ******* to caress,
no hips and no rear.
That is, I do have them,
but you'll not find them here.
It's so hard to compete
sipping long slurps of mead,
somewhat sweet, something biting,
when shots come much quicker,
they get you there
down the line
move along
spending time
wisely. I
have to take mine.
I can't rush this.
You must understand.
I'm a poet. I hold these words
tight in my hands.
I release them, but slowly,
like time's grains of sand.
There's no **** here,
just titles.
No models, just writers.
Our words are our craft.
We drink, we expire.
If photos are worth just one thousand words each,
then I am the camera
with the film out of reach.
I struggle with knowing that I'll never get the coverage other artists do. I married a photographer, and I won't presume that their work is easy. Mine is difficult to interact with, though. I demand time, I demand attention, I demand thought. This is okay; this is even good. I need to demand the same level of attention to my writing that I expect from a reader, even if it won't get as many <3's as the next GIF over.