I am not a Writer

Alexia Quraeshi

To be tame, is so lame, just wondering about the time.

No interest in task, not daring to ask, just sat and got lost in rhyme.

I cannot be Shakespeare; I would simply appear as a fool.

I cannot write sonnets, why try? I’d rather not be cruel.

There shall be talk, when people gawk, at my mistakes.

I cannot tell the difference between an allegory or an anecdote,

Nor the the meaning of a story, that is my asymptote.

I cannot avoid the run-on sentences in my mind, I am a traffic jam

of derailed trains of thought.

I have fruitless trees as my imagination and desert plains as humour.

My brain is simply a rumour, the faint echo of an idea that used to grow.

But it is now a withered plant that is desperately seeking sunlight.

In short, I do not know what to write.

I’m not a poet, and I know it.

Not a good comedian either.

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