Wednesday, April 16, 2014

Poetry Project, day 15- I think I finally get iambic pentameter (that was not in iambic pentameter)

I never understood meter before.
How can it be so easy to see stress,
and not to just become a ball of stress
when in the past it always blew my mind.
Has age at last brought wisdom with it's years,
or do my flaws evade my seeing eyes
like all the things I've done and left behind.
To start this way is fun but can I stop?
Or am I trapped in verse for all of time?
I see my future now in front of me-
the rolling eyes of friends who long to smack
the rhythm out of my repeating lines,
the smile off of my annoying face.
But please do not begrudge my will to try,
for things like this were once beyond my grasp.
As simple as today it may appear,
or as it still may be to different brains.
I take each small success and hold it close,
for who knows when success will come again,
or if I've seen it's first and final blow.
I make awake and find that all is lost,
my momentary verse turned to white dust.
Or find that suddenly I have no time,
like most who have the will to learn but not
the luxury of hours to sit and think,
to count the syllables with joyous beats
of finger tips against a plastic case
or tapping on a table long and hard.
Ignore the voice inside that likes to shout-
shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up-
and bounce along the wave of gentle sound
that comes when all the words fit into place
and make the world a more organized place.

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