There is a reason I don’t write poetry

And here it is!

To Face the Truth

‘Tis a terrible thing to face the truth,

To examine oneself and find little to sooth.

To review all that angst,

And find nothing but the fangs,

Of a dingo, in that telephone booth (of truth).

Some can write poetry as rolls off the tongue,

Some can write prose that burns like the sun.

Yet often my truth,

Is that my work belongs in that booth,

With the dingo, and all of its dung.

Of Iambic Pentameter I know not a whit,

When I discuss Yeats I sound like a tit.

Perhaps I could be a bush poet,

But I write nothing of note,

And readers just think I’m a git.

When I consider a theme,

I end in a daydream.

And my plots all have dots,

M-dashes? What?

God help me if I try to write meme.

The truth is my friends,

The hardest words are ‘the end’.

Although the ones in the middle,

Make me fidget and fiddle,

And beginnings, my mind they do bend.

(c) Andrew Girle 2012

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