It is true, that most(read all) poets are vain. We will deny it but you know we know it is true. To be honest, I have sometimes fancied myself a god of sorts; a god of words: a wordsmith! Something about creating things… just like that.

But it gets to our heads(my head) sometimes. Writers block of course doesnt help. It makes you feel very… mortal.

Kind sir, merciful when need occassions,

I beg that you lay eyes and lend ear

(the two themselves kind) to my confessions.

I fear I have been given to pride

on account of my divine creations,

rivaled only perhaps by those of the Creator,

brought to life but with the swift stroke of quill;

once lending its beauty to the breast of a peacock.

But most , most gracious sir, by my means to lazy stations

I have as desperate bulls, nostrils infused by promising scent,

summoned the kind muse, begging for thought(my own this volition)

yet squandered all or made filthy as swine.

But I have been schooled, my errors brought to light,

so may I be struck by lightning on this account

should ever a vain thought come to mind.

———————————mini-anthology: Hepatica——————————————