Must you always compose in the shade? Are you some kind of faulty prism, absorbing and reflecting only the darker colors? Instead of making music, you emit murmurous melancholy soliloquies. Can you not count a lily’s petals and pluck them with iambic pentameter? Or construct an inversion of down-sloping train tracks, billows of enjambment eclipsing an anapestic afternoon?
Let the stars be your Milky Way statements, the Via Lactea trimeter speckling the atmosphere with finality. Mark questions with organic curvature like waterfall-smoothed sonnet stones, and exclaim with sequoia groves – small orchards narrowed to a point as pecan trees, seldom and sparse. Espouse the telling as much as the content, framing the words like a parenthetical embrace of afterthought seeping with prosody.
Capitalize Every Moment.
The all-knowing, intellectual “they” tell you to write what you know.