I want to write poetry
like I want to chew my own arm off
There is nothing making me
write
poetry
You might even argue
Poetry
is nowhere to be found
and certainly not what I am writing
But in the spaces between words
and sentences
you can feel
the
weight
and tension
At least I can
and whom am I writing this for anyway?
If not the you in my head and whom I want you to be for my poem
Today
you are cynical and postured over a desk
With your arms at your chin
Glasses on the edge of your nose
Beaty brown eyes and an inquisitive expression on your face
As if to say
"how much do you need me to believe this poetry?"
Because it isn't
Or so you've said
with other expressions
that clearly say
Get back to work!
You are slowing the gears of production!
Even poetry says so, you fool!
Stand down!
And so
I get off a train
And meander up a flight of stairs
In hopes of finding
Something worth writing
But will probably just head to work
--
2.28.12
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