Poem: Portrait of the Scribbler

[scribblemyname]

PORTRAIT OF THE SCRIBBLER

I am one of those people—

(they say you’d have to know me

to love me; do not try too hard)

the kind you wish you’d meet;

the kind you wish you’d never meet:

the kind who makes unnecessary

grand announcements: let

it be hereknown, I feel this way

(you couldn’t care? why don’t you say!);

who transforms life to drama, singing

eclectic lines from favorite songs

(do not worry; this won’t take long);

who softly, yet sarcastically

pedals backward, lunges forward

(uncertainty is so untoward);

who offers love—platonically—

too readily, or so I’m told

(living life is for the bold);

who will listen carefully

until the flash of inspiration

interrupting conversation

(writing is my meditation);

who’s organized and yet chaotic,

whose stacks of papers overflow

(at least I have them, neat or no);

who’s like to answer every question,

even the rhetorical

(I’m just a tad too literal)—

the kind who always has your back

but forgets to cut you slack;

the kind who wishes harder than

she works, but yet still works;

the kind who hopes and then despairs

then hopes again, and then despairs;

the kind who of herself thinks nothing

then turns around and puts on airs;

the kind who tells you right and wrong

by every school of grammar and thought,

then sheepishly admits she’s wrong

and humbly admires your better thought;

the kind who writes and too well thinks

of her own words, of her own words;

who knows that there are better things,

but always comes right back to words.

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Originally published at Liana Mir. You can comment here or there.