Commercial author, screenwriter,
Made-for-film poet:
You write for the money,
and place your words to a
Strategic map. Story arcs,
Rise and fall to set time counts
And have a specific sine or cosine
Wave, depending on whether it's
Tragedy or Comedy.
Where you have guides,
I only have the structure of roots
Where lines pull the words in
The directions they think
They sense water, nitrogen,
Blood.
Your moods are staccato bursts,
Or languid affairs, or calculatedly
Muddied. Mine eddy in varying degrees.
Tangential, clumsy, but organic.
The words tap out from your fingertips
Precise, Times-New Roman, Ariel things
Placed where the graphs say will be
The highest potential energy.
Mine bud from awkward, wayward branches
Parsing themselves until the only logic left
Is traced through the corners of your periphery.
You are an arbiter of syllable selection
For the same reason.
I am a lexiphanes, to the point of
Being accused of pedantics
Your verses are well-oiled machinery,
Gleaming chrome and iPod Plastics.
They smell of cash.
Mine smell like petrichor, and are
Cobbled from whatever lies at hand.
You write for the payment.
You write as if your life depended on it.
My writing brings me only expenses,
But I do it because mine does.
No comments:
Post a Comment