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Intellectual Expert
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Whenever the muse moves me, I tend to go. By go, I mean flap around uselessly until some wonderful person in blue tries to rescue me. I suppose what I’m speaking of is my attempt with poetry. In the house where I matriculated, poetry ruled the universe. We spent our days scribbling out verse, whether it be in short-form or iambic pentameter. What? Yes, it is true. The other collaboration of chromosomes my parents called their child fancied himself Shakespeare. He would spend the days locked in his room spewing out verse after verse of absolute nonsense seeing that he was only four years of age and could hardly refer to our amassed pets as anything but “meow-meows”.
But I digress. When first attending this esteemed college I produced a number of sad ventures that never did amount to much.
black is my soul.
dark currents run throughout my innermost being.
a lone voice calls out from the darkness:
“Mahen! Arrught! Woewes!
why does commons not have peppermint ice cream?”
As you can see, nothing of beauty or grace could trickle from my blue sparkle pen to my yellow-lined paper. Then fate struck. Sure, it was undercooked pasta, and it struck my face, but it struck nonetheless.
life.
love.
mess.
cow.
birth.
revelation.
Although Dialogue was not as awe-struck as I or my closest of chums, I found a site on the internet that publishes all of the labors of my passion for the mere cost of $28.97. So thank you to all the souls who messed with my heart to bring me enlightenment.
One life to love.
One will to live.
One heart to bring.
One paper to smudge.
One cat to meow.
One Mike for more.
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