Death of a Natural... Wordsmith

A big green book unfolded and words flowing,

Dancing along the page in a jig, true to its Irish roots.

He wrote as he spoke and he spoke as he wrote,

I presumed.

I’ve been to a bog and I’ve witnessed all this,

Pictures he creates with words.

My imagination is often weak, yet when I read this,

It’s not.

I moan, “poetry is for losers!”

I’m trying to be cool, again.

I love this anthology of words and

Will even use it in my future university degree,

Unbeknownst to me at the time.

So shut up younger, arrogant, try – hard me.

You don’t know anything, yet.

Not enough. You’re young. You’re a moron,

Sorry, but not sorry.

Dizzy Rascal used words, I loved his words.

Jezebel, pull up your socks and stand up tall.

Different to Heaney, of course.

Of course, but still a wordsmith of sorts.

Await the ambush of artsy farts,

abuse at how I could compare the two…

Oh dear!

The wordsmiths use words with such ease and flair.

I can’t even compare.

But I'll try and make people laugh.

Not on purpose most of the time,I expect.

Until finally, I can call myself a wordsmith, of sorts.

Not like Dizzy or Heaney.

Or Tinchy Stryder or Carol Ann Duffy.

I’ll write like no one, because no one writes the same.

No one’s mind is on par with another.

No one’s imagination can think like mine.

He wrote a play, I’ve written a play.

He is inspiration and ammunition to my weapon.

The weapon I’ll use, like he did.

A pen.

No gun, no protest, no shovel.

Quietly, behind the scenes of media,

And public mayhem.

I’ll make my point with written speech and,

Well, You’ll probably laugh.