I compare thee to a summers day
Well I wish I could
But I’m not that sort of writer
If only I were bright.
Instead I wrack my brain
Digging into its deepest depths
Desperately searching for a word
That sounds worthy for inclusion.
Sometimes it’s a struggle
Hardly worth the trouble
Of enduring mental exhaustion.
The only thing I compare to
Is the reclusive old man
With his clutch of dirty carrier bags
Overflowing with an assortment of
Newspapers, leaflets and notebooks.
A wandering portable
Personal recycling unit
Who scribbles crazy thoughts
On scraps of paper
Sat in a corner
Trying to be anonymous
Of the local library.
That’s the closest I’ll get
To ‘poetry irony’ today.
Dulwich Poet 16th June 2013
( Sometimes I really struggle to write, feeling my vocabulary is far to small. When I get writing I can feel like the ‘stereotype library eccentric’…the ‘irony’ being…I actually work in a public library)
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