She Started a Screenplay

She started a screenplay but it got insanely boring, So she flipped to a clean page and began a novel. By page two she could not bear it. It was not making sense. I will write a poem, she thought. Poems came easily. They were shorter. They did not bore her. The punchlines were fast and clever. She wrote twelve poems. This satisfied her urge more than a bit. She kept writing poetry. A poetess now, self-imposed. She hid them away for years. They were hers, not to be shared. Let me see one, a friend begged. And begged. And begged. She relented, and almost no comments were made. An occasional “hmmmmm” which was not satisfying at all. She did not show her poems again for a long long time. The people who professed to love her the most were the most critical When she did. They began to write poems too. They bragged about theirs Which were so much better than hers. Anyway that is what she thought. She was totally wrong. Died with a plethora of poems that were insanely good Not knowing this at all. They were burned in a bonfire by her nieces and nephews. Many who could not read, and some who did not read Even though they could have if they had wanted to Which is more the pity.