Idle hands make for poetry
– A short prose
There is nearly no one idle as the [male] poet.
With his pen he muses to himself and with the press he infects the world with his nonsensical ramblings.
I speak here of the male poet. The female is birthed from the wonderous world of the girl – full of prettiness and strength.
Not so the male.
He has the nerve to always complain about everything and all people.
His prose are arrogant at best and his scribblings are rarely of a good rhyme, despite his access to thesauri.
All he can do is complain.
Complain about everything.
Even himself.
Oh wait.