07-18-2017, 05:57 AM
Hi, typing mantis. I giggled at the title.
My Grandma used to call my Grandpa "slowpoke".
I suffer from a strange disease;
I cannot ink down words.
It's not that I'm illiterate,
the reason's more absurd.
My words behave inexplicably,
they don't stick to their page.
As soon as they are written down,
they flap away like birds.
I am mortified of my condition.
But I hide it well:
When out, I am forever knitting, -don't know why I see "ever knitting", meter perhaps?
I'm never free to write.
I haven't lost all hope just yet,
there has to be a cure.
Every morning, without fail,
I try and write some more.
Today, as I picked up my pen,
I felt blue and gloomy. -I think there are better words.
Maybe it has been long enough,
and now it's time I ceased. -I don't care for this last line, ceased makes me think of death.
But my lament was premature!
I wrote a word that stuck!
Well, actually, it moved glacially.
The word I wrote was “slow”.
It made its way painstakingly, - shouldn't painstakingly be between It and made?
off the page, the desk, to the floor. - this line lacks sharpness
It slunk and slithered across the room,
and oozed out of the door.
I quickly rushed out after it,
in hopes that if I followed it,
I might finally get to see
where all my other words go!
I followed on till sunset,
my feet were now quite sore.
This is when I noticed,
some strange and purple snow.
Surprised, I looked around,
or, was it the world that spun?
When my eyes were fixed on “slow”,
my world had packed and run!
Perplexed, bemused and clueless,
I didn't know what to do.
And so I am still walking,
still blindly following “slow”. -how can you blindly follow something you can see?
A different sort of poem, almost seems insulting,
judgemental, even boasting omniscience-
but with an entertaining innocence about it,
reminded me of a meatball song. Thank you
for the read and opportunity to critque.
best wishes
nibbed
My Grandma used to call my Grandpa "slowpoke".
I suffer from a strange disease;
I cannot ink down words.
It's not that I'm illiterate,
the reason's more absurd.
My words behave inexplicably,
they don't stick to their page.
As soon as they are written down,
they flap away like birds.
I am mortified of my condition.
But I hide it well:
When out, I am forever knitting, -don't know why I see "ever knitting", meter perhaps?
I'm never free to write.
I haven't lost all hope just yet,
there has to be a cure.
Every morning, without fail,
I try and write some more.
Today, as I picked up my pen,
I felt blue and gloomy. -I think there are better words.
Maybe it has been long enough,
and now it's time I ceased. -I don't care for this last line, ceased makes me think of death.
But my lament was premature!
I wrote a word that stuck!
Well, actually, it moved glacially.
The word I wrote was “slow”.
It made its way painstakingly, - shouldn't painstakingly be between It and made?
off the page, the desk, to the floor. - this line lacks sharpness
It slunk and slithered across the room,
and oozed out of the door.
I quickly rushed out after it,
in hopes that if I followed it,
I might finally get to see
where all my other words go!
I followed on till sunset,
my feet were now quite sore.
This is when I noticed,
some strange and purple snow.
Surprised, I looked around,
or, was it the world that spun?
When my eyes were fixed on “slow”,
my world had packed and run!
Perplexed, bemused and clueless,
I didn't know what to do.
And so I am still walking,
still blindly following “slow”. -how can you blindly follow something you can see?
A different sort of poem, almost seems insulting,
judgemental, even boasting omniscience-
but with an entertaining innocence about it,
reminded me of a meatball song. Thank you
for the read and opportunity to critque.
best wishes
nibbed
there's always a better reason to love