Darling, this is something you should know about me,
Befitting the romantic fool that I am.
That day I wanted to be,
A morning runner.
I loved the dull pain that would stray to
My ears and temple after the icy air
Bit me as I ran. I was never quick enough;
The wind laughed at me sarcastically,everywhere.
Another day dawned when I decided to be
A portrait artist.
Every face I looked at was an enigma in its
Own right, and several times my brittle
Pencil broke. Soon the thick creamy paper was
Covered in smiles, both smudged and noncommittal.
Under a pale summer sky I thought I'd make a good
I could just stand there and sigh, at the laughable
Insignificance of the sparkly pebbles they called
Diamonds .Even in my deep frenzy I was frustrated;
I cried in the light of the day,waiting for darkness to fall.
On a rainy afternoon i wrote a poem and hoped I could be
I dreamed of telling stories that were true and titillating
And penning poems that would sing impassioned.
So I wrote, till my fingers bled and my soul bled harder,
In naked fervour. Then I fell asleep sweaty and drained.
Over the years I tried, a mountaineer, a historian, a Prima Donna, a cat-rescuer, a deep-sea diver.
People mocked my flimsy resolve, you may too.
Would it suffice if I said, that the only thing I've stuck with,