Gremlins Singing

(This poem stemmed from a debate.  A weird one too.  I pointed out that songs can be seen as poetry with musical accompaniment while poetry is the opposite.  The person said that isn’t always true because not all songs rhyme, but I think my point still stands.)

The great novel
Aspiration of my youth
My golden goal
For all these years
A want I never doubted
Until I woke at thirty

I have my plans
That I still hold very dear
Outlines and notes
Carefully constructed
Like children of my mind
That may never get to play

I stroke the bindings
Of my two ‘victories’
Both pushed to print
Which supporters call successes
Proud of my achievements
Yet I sense them lacking

The truth is harsh
I could not push
The way I needed to
My support faltered
Handing me chores
When I asked for more than words

Still there is the lacking
That both novels have at heart
I have been scared
To voice my thoughts
Going against my dream
A strange turn I did not see

I have a rhythm
That I keep raw
It comes out in the verse
And strangles in the prose
My poetry is a flow
That my prose can never match

So I wonder
If I have chosen poorly
That my true path
Was slightly to my right
Hidden by my pride
Upon writing a great novel

My characters have soared
Their adventures shined
Among my worlds of depth
Born anew
By a simple verse
Done with unsteady hands

So I stand
On an edge I fear
Because of time I wasted
To restart my mind
As a man of verse
And not a man of volume