William McGehee


Biography of William McGehee

Well I've reached a milestone,100 poems. I don't know if poets keep stats like athletes do. They might, but only count the good ones. If that's the case, I'm probably still a few shy of that mark. It doesn't really matter, mostly because nobody gets poetry like they used to. I've just found that, in looking back over the process, this is as good as time as any to complie the lot of it for consumption. Maybe I think that my writing, and most likely only my writing, has matured by this point. The unfortunate reader now may be able to observe and appreciate the artistic growth. Maybe I just like round numbers, and 100 is such a nice one. Whatever the reason, here and now I have chosen to lay bare 100 pieces of my soul, mind, heart, feelings, viscera, kidnies, knee caps, biceps, back hair, or what ever part it is of the human beeing that poetry actually comes from. I don't think any one actually knows...

I have absolutely no idea how this will be received. This litterary hodgepodge has no clear structure, though you might be able to identify numerous forms and voices. It has no particular message, though you might be able to lay your finger on several underlying themes. The populace generally sees tragedy where I see comedy, and vice versa. Additionally, the range of topics that I have looked at, couppled with the myirad of styles that I have emulated might confuse or even overwhelm anyone not used to dealing with me on a daily basis.

I mentioned earlier that this all was part of artistic growth for me. The first of these so called poems was written while I was in highschool cerca 2005. The most recent was written a few days ago. Now, if I were a mathmation instead of a poet, I just might be able to tell you exactly how many years I've been writing. But alas, we all have our gifts and mine is certainly not numbers. Be forwarned that, after reading this book, you may come to the conclusion that poetry isn't my gift either. Maybe by the time I hit 200 poems, good or otherwise, things might have sorted themselves out.

I'm not going to tell you which poem was the first, or the last. I'm not going to put them in anything but alphabetical order. I want you to decide which ones you like and which ones you don't; all with the least possible amount of bias imposed on your experience. After all, if you get nothing out of what you're about to read, you can at least come away knowing that it was entirely your choice to do so.

Well, without further ado, in sickness and in health, in peace and in war, in grace and in sin, in sacrifice and in pleantly I present to you my first work of collected verse, titled...

What, You've Got Nothing Better To do?

P.S.
If you think something in here has to do with you, you might want to get over yourself, but you are entitled to your own opinion

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Whisper

Whisper to her little words,
Whisper soft for her to hear,
Whisper love for only her.

Whisper words that can be heard
And shine like water, crystal clear.
Whisper to her little words.

Whisper words that do not blur,

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