A little patience would have won the world for me,
Then I would have for long basked in glorious sunshine
Feted for my successful stint as an outstanding poet;
But I was really in a hurry, firstly to outdo others
And then myself;
I had filled sheaves upon sheaves of paper with words and phrases,
Some held meanings and some were merely a jabbering of sorts
Not actually meant to convey anything of note to the readers.
Indeed my readers appreciated each word I wrote,
Through my poems, they thought they had entered my world
As though to play the role I had drawn out for them alone,
And they laughed and cried with me
And they made me stand very tall.
Then one day, when I had almost exhausted my ware,
Rested my pen and mind I heard their screams,
My readers had begun to suffer more and more pain
Caused by my words whose true meaning they had of late come to realize.
What I wrote were not poems;
They had understood my farcical efforts,
I was thoroughly exposed.
I did not dare respond
I lost my place which with a little bit of patience
Would not have been denied.
This piece I wrote some years ago when I realized I was not meant to be a poet.