Sometimes I write because I need to process something. Unlike a normal person who just thinks about it for a bit or talks to their friend, I reach for a pen. I did it tons when I was a teenager, and I started doing it again more recently. Sometimes the process lends itself to poetry. It's not always good.

I do not covet the
vastness of fields
or the strength of
fortresses that come with titles.

I do not desire the swords,
oaths, bodies, and words
granted to him
by lineage and destiny.

I have no wish for glory
showered upon a savior
taken by a conqueror
defaulted by birth.

Her touch, delicate on an arm
in plain view,
unknowing venom cast at eyes
that should shy away.

When eyes meet and linger,
A mind runs wild with imagination.
Terribly alone,
a heart seizes.

All I know is battle.
The clanging of steel
Smashing of wood,
I understand, predict and counter.

At court, I am still.
Honeyed words and
hidden plots do not
become the silent warrior.

Do her eyes pierce through my intentions?

I'm just a guy in a bar
lost in fantasy.
Furtively eying a girl
With a mythical name.

His arm crawls over her,
draping her longingly.
Hand sneaking every closer,
faint smile on his lips.

My whiskey ran dry,
the glass taken away.
Idled hands fret and
troubled eyes risk only a glance.

Questions rise when gazes meet,
Am I just the Lancelot to his Arthur?
Burning silently, righteously
in his court?

My honor is my reputation.
Am I destined for betrayal?
Should I avoid the raging fire
return to ashes long forgotten?

I'm just a guy in a bar
creating fantasies,
locking eyes furtively
with a girl so mythically named.

Does her gaze pierce through me?

I will retreat before discovery.

Arthur will bed his Guinevere.