The word “poetry” is so pretentious

It makes you think of that guy

You know the one

The guy who talked over everyone in your junior lit class

Because he thought reading “The Stranger” made him understand existentialism

Who scribbled down lines in his moleskin notebook while the rest of the class talked about Sherman Alexie because he was writing poetry

He couldn’t be bothered with someone else’s words

Not when his own were so much more important

After all, how could he hit on girls after class if his notebook was empty?

How could he appear to be deep and mysterious if he couldn’t talk about Camus?

But that guy will never read Camus’ essay on the freedom of suicide

Or understand why Alexie’s anger burns like a star in your belly when you read it

He will never understand how words can be a balm

As well as a weapon

How a poem is supposed to make your blood sing

When it sits in you

Like cold air in your lungs

Or sharp sweetness on your tongue

That a poem can be a knife or a battering ram

Depending on how you wield it against those who think you’re not worth hearing

Those people who don’t understand that poetry isn’t outside of us

It can’t be jotted down and then tossed away

That it clings to our hearts and our minds and ourselves

Always