(I haven’t gotten my story back from the proofreader and I haven’t wanted to write my second novel idea. So here’s my poem based of the dream I had about Shakespeare and Poe arguing about the correct way to write a poem. While I don’t remember much of what they were arguing about, I assume this is sort of the gist of it. It was weird to see them having the ‘great debate’ while basically being a fly on the wall even if it was a dream. I believe I was moving to different places to get different angles.)
Tis not I who holds tight onto the past, looking in glass bottles for salvation of the heart. Thou come here, wagging fingers at me, spewing words of superiority. Tis not I possessing inferior words but thee with unkempt hair and foul breath. How dare thou show your unshaven face in a time such as this! Before thou open your mouth and show me yellow teeth, remember this. Thou sound like a chained man. Thee are the intolerable and ghastly man disguised as a writer. Readers might admire the hairs on your head, but I know better to be fooled. Immortality does not last for a man like me and neither does it for you. Women are only ghosts haunting during the night. Tis not some woman with flowing hair at thee door. Shameless man, how far does thee well go down into hell? Do not disguise thee self with guilt in your heart. Tis the fountain dried already? Must the loneliness overtake the moon in the sky? Long, drawn out explanations of sadness has cut everything in half. The raven means nothing while napping. Absurd man with the Elizabethan ruff. Time for me to ask questions. Thou come into my domain. I have owned it since my birth. Proclaiming my inferiority of the words I write. If tis was not viciously repugnant, I might find thee a little bit admirable. Go near a perfumed woman called the wife and leave me be! I hath no need for further condemnation, but to find favor in the mystery.