April Poem-A-Day 16: In my mind, I write wondrous novels

In my mind, I write wondrous novels,
complex plots and insightful characters
woven with a sure, deft touch,
polished as old scrimshaw.

In reality, my crude attempts are flawed,
dull, derivative, sloppy, ill-focused.

I sigh with resignation, knowing
I may never gain the ability to overcome
my amateurish and clumsy mauling
of long form tale telling.

So I write poetry:
stories severely abbreviated,
distilled to strobed flashes
of ciphered allusion and image.

Still, I t’aint much of a poet,
more rough, clumsy versifier.
I’m erratic of rhyme and rhythm,
predicable of theme and symbol,
overly obvious of simile,
repetitive of imagery.

Yet I have some skill with words,
informed by a sly wicked humor,
a penchant for self-deprecation
and an eccentric vocabulary.

And I know how to ruthlessly
rip off my literary elders.
Or I ape them with clumsy abandon
might be the more apt description.
(although this surely slights simians,
this comparison to my blunt hackery.)

I sigh, wistful and pensive,
dreaming of epics.

© 2009, php