Within myself an utter war I wage --
I fear that my two ears myself betray.
I hear the works of Shakespeare on the stage,
and yet, with pen in hand, my iambs stray.
I dream of putting poetry to page
with grace of ballerinas, thus complete --
with pen and tongue at war my thoughts enrage;
lamenting that my tongue has two left feet.
While songs and psalms twirl flawless in my mind,
composers stand in line to play my tune,
when I awake, reality I find --
my verse is like a clanging pan and spoon.
My rhymes are good, and yet my meter's bad --
a problem to resolve or I'll go mad!
A problem that is bad, but could be worse --
what if no poets wrote iambic verse?
What if there was no Shakespeare for the stage?
What if no Barrett/Browning letters sent?
What if we had to stare at sterile page?
A world without poetics we'd lament!
Without their sonnets to profess true love,
how would we measure beauty, thus refined?
Would all the stars still shine so bright above?
Would man's attempts at love be undermined?
I shudder when I think of what might be
or better yet, what might have never been
if Shakespeare waged that war internally --
and struggled just like me with tongue and pen.
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