quill

never perfected

we pluck and preen
each plume
of ourselves
before prying eyes

the peepers of page
voyeurs of feathered roots
suffixes, and prefixes

this makes sense --

even Will understood
that life's but a walking shadow
a poor player upon a stage

he knew that frets and loves
would dot the barbs floating
from our eyes

hollows spurt
word after word
of coffee induced verses
and 3AM sleeplessness
striving for perfection

and so

we scribble
until sounds and utterances
dry in our quills

with hopes that one day
we'll earn the right
to be called

a scribe

a versifier

a poet