There’s this secret I have. It’s an ugly secret, an ugly black secret with yellow teeth and bloodstained claws. I would never dare speak it in a room filled with writers. They would gasp and faint, dig up the bones of Emily Dickenson and stab me with them.
You are all writers, but luckily you are also all at a safe distance. And I bet few of you know the location of Emily’s grave. That is why I feel safe in admitting: rhythm and meter are not my friends.
There now. The worst is over. Let me explain. Many sonnets ago, in an iambic pentameter far removed from my present ill-formed free verse, I was a student at Boston College. As such, I was required to take an art class. I chose music; I am a fool.
“Wait,” you say, “music class is the easy way out. Professor McGrann plays you some CDs, you tap your foot along to a couple of jazzy numbers, and you get an A.”
Wrong, my writer friends. When I tap my foot, I look like a lunatic. I can not find a beat to save my life or my GPA. I am deaf to rhythm and meter.
So there, now you know the whole unsanitary business. It will be no surprise, therefore, when you read my latest attempt at a poem. If it helps, picture me rapidly and randomly tapping my foot when you read it. Because I certainly did when I wrote it.
P.S. Kim, I love everything I write and I am awesome. Yeah, I’m great at poems and making them sound good. I also play the piano well and am considering attending Julliard. [+10 writer points]
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