by Rachelle de Bretagne

Created on: April 08, 2010

Laugh though you may, consider me a poet, since
My words in rhyme may merit that small prize,
Although their intimacy may cause you to wince,
I cannot in my verses, speak in endless lies.

You say my words lack substance, and are shallow,
Comparing me with Shakespeare who is dead,
And say my muse's fields are ever fallow,
Preferring dwelling on great works instead.

Though what you missed was what was clearly written,
Between the lines, in sentimental pause,
To take for granted that I would be smitten,
By everything you say, or every cause.

Tis you, my shallow friend, who is not yet alive,
Hiding behind the textbooks of your youth,
While all the verse within me lives to thrive,
Is wasted on a soul who's so uncouth.

In truth, I am a poet, though you do not read me,
The difference is that all others do,
And though, my friend, you find you do not need me,
It doesn't make my poetry less true.

So ride upon your sonnets, and your printed word,
Ignore my musings, words which stand in strength upon,
The summit of a hill, where larks are heard,
I shall still be a poet when you're dead and gone.

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