I am not a novelist, I am a poet.
Stories run through me, from me,
Not sunny.
I stutter and I stumble
My dialogue is bad
And with prose, I teem.
Time buries me with
A million lines,
Too many commas,
Too many rhymes.
“So write a collection!” exclaim the encouragers,
But the worn backspace of my keyboard groans,
“Oh, don’t you encourage her!”
And so I am a poet, a novelist I am not.
Wishing for more words, until Time lets me rot.
Apr 7, 2025
Apr 7, 2025 at 3:41 AM UTC
I am not a novelist, I am a poet.
Stories run through me, from me,
Not sunny.
I stutter and I stumble
My dialogue is bad
And with prose, I teem.
Time buries me with
A million lines,
Too many commas,
Too many rhymes.
“So write a collection!” exclaim the encouragers,
But the worn backspace of my keyboard groans,
“Oh, don’t you encourage her!”
And so I am a poet, a novelist I am not.
Wishing for more words, until Time lets me rot.
inspired by "Why I am Not a Painter" by Frank O'Hara