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.