2019 – Eighteen – Prompt 22, Hour 18 – Letter to Me Before I Was a Poet

Do you recall,
or not so much,
when you could speak
without rhythm?

When all your words
were simple
and you were happy
with ’em?

They suited
all your wants
and needs
and no one
thought
much of ’em.

And you could
speak,
then go to bed,
and dream without
suspicion?

Then one day,
you thought in rhyme
and wrote it down
and spoke aloud
and all the heavens
opened up
and poems fluttered down.

Then simple speech
was not enough.
You felt each thought
was coarse and rough
and so you smoothed
them, felt the tough
ones soften to your touch.

Sonnets came,
sestinas too.
Dividing them,
there held like glue
the free-form
words
and then you knew
you’d never sleep again.

So when the chance came,
MARATHON!
To wear your mind out,
wear it gone,
for just a little,
dawn to dawn,
you signed up,
COUNT ME IN!

Now here you are
dreaming of dreams
suspicious of them,
so it seems,
but missing where
adventure teems
and steams
to flavor all your sleep.

But you can’t sleep,
you said you’d write
from dawn to dawn,
all through the night,
and so this letter’s yours
alright,
so you can keep your word.

Tomorrow, after we’ve had
our sleep,
and eaten more than cheese
and meat,
and had a beer
and sat outside,
no poet then
we’ll be.

Thankful for the poetry
more thankful
for the rest
we’ll say,
“We’ll please not do this again.”

But I know you,
and you know me,
and come next year
we’ll both agree
there’s nowhere else we’d
rather be
than here,
Oh Marathon!

Love,
Your Pal,
Morgan

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