Unwritten and Restricted

A limerick, described simply as “a humorous five-line poem with a rhyme scheme of aabaa“.

But, tell me, what’s so humorous about a writer who doesn’t possess the ability to condense their thoughts into five measly lines? I’m no Hemingway.

What is funny about a wordsmith who can’t smith words when the maths of calculating syllables is involved? I scraped a C in Maths, after all.

Is it the irony that makes you laugh in that of a poet being unable to rhyme or keep in time? Wait a minute – was that a… rhyme?

Form is at the essence of poetry; the accurate maths of literature. I find the constraints of such structure suffocating; claustrophobic —

Boom boom, boom, boom boom boom. My heart doesn’t hold a steady beat – or maybe I’m just mishearing. Pull my knees to my chest. Desire to escape. Chest tightens. World spins. Walls stare. No. More. Air.

— This scream is silent; a lonely kind because, don’t you know, you can’t call yourself a writer if you’re not published? It’s not right for you to call yourself a poet if you lack the capability to rhyme cat with bat and mat and fat and sat and gnat and — stop!

These feelings are as erratic as the words on my page. This is no limerick but this is my passion and this is my emotion and if it lacks any kind of comprehensible structure then that’s okay. This is art and art is raw and messy if you want it to be, just as art is tamed and controlled – if you want it to be – and if you’re out of breath from reading this and think I speak too fast and write too sloppy, if you think I need more commas, then maybe my art is simply one you just don’t understand.

This is a fictional response to this prompt: limerick. 

I’ve always made it quite clear on this blog that although I enjoy the poetry of life and have a passion for words, I’m no poet. I don’t have an understanding of structure and I can’t rhyme or hold a beat. But that’s okay.

Art isn’t something that can be dictated by other people. It’s something personal and individual. It can’t be given a grade A or a grade F and it’s value isn’t truly marked by it’s price tag.

The above piece of writing is completely raw. I haven’t edited it – in fact, I’ve barely even read over it. It might sound clumsy and it might sound poor, it might not make sense and it might make you uncomfortable to read after being exposed to such poignant literature beauty I’m sure you’ve previously indulged in, but it’s passion on paper – or in a post, as it is – and I won’t apologise for that.

If you’d like to read some of my more coherent pieces of writing, you can do so here:

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