Our Stammering Hands

 

It is on one of these days that I hate Shakespeare,

For being so frank and for,

His free abandon.

I scribble on papers yet the joyous writ dwindles down to

Common and short.

How did he do it, this great hate of mine. How did he

Turn word to whispers and whispers to silent wisdom.

He inspired the liberal to tears,

And the tearful to drownings.

From Hamlet to Shylock! Oh how I hate Shakespeare. He

Has made all my writings dull.

But if you opened my mind and sprinkled my heart,

You will find as such abandon as his.

As in all of us who write.

Ripples and thoughts of unexplained rhythm.

Ohh, if only the pen was in my head and

Not in my hand.

My hand is a stammerer.

It struggles with easy phrases that my mind clearly sees.

The brilliance of shakespeare is that he buried his pen and,

Sprayed the ink inside his head.

He bent down as if in prayer and bled on every page.

He twirled his head to speak the phrases and,

The words came dancing through.

Ohh How I hate Shakespeare.

For I am yet to bled, or,

Bury my pen inside my head.

In these moments of my learning I am compelled to say,

Of a truth, I am not a good writer of poetry.

Now, let me venture on into Romeo and Juliet.

dickseeromeo

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