Creative
Some days I am a thinker stuck in a worker’s world,
A pontificator and procrastinator with no clear sense or goal,
I am lost in my thoughts, unavailable for meetings,
Even when I am in one.
Some days I am a dreamer stuck in a sleepless night,
I’m lost and tired and weary, blinded by office lights,
I long for open mountain passes, highways or infinity,
Not a wooden desk.
Some days I am a runner chained up to a chair,
Both longing and exhausted for a road at which to tear,
I am privilege and luck though this does not comfort me,
Even when I’m running.
Some days I’m a musician or poet playfully,
I am the embodiment of passion, love and feeling free,
I need to make something out of nothing to survive,
I am a creative.
I could sit here and write crap all day
and some self-proclaimed pontificator
would criticize it
for the drivel it is
or
love it,
and call it Poetry.
Open-ended…
Free verse…
Just other names for
“Got No Talent”
and no sense of rhythm or rhyme
but
beloved by those
who adore disjointed thought
and random word.
Yes, I am great,
for I stand on a rock and shout
so all the world may hear
my prolific
poetic words.
And because I
catch the eye
of
One Who Is Heard,
who has access
to grant money
or
others who self-proclaim,
I am suddenly,
eternally,
a Poet.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.