writing about writing
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I’m not a poet,
Just can’t be.
My meter is shit;
My verse is free.
I cram and cram,
Cover it with locks,
But my words won’t fit
In the goddamn box.
So I just give up.
I wander a street,
Admiring the buildings to either side.
A diverse collection of history
In two-by-fours and I-beams.
If I could
I would write novels about this black hole in my head
about how it manages to twist every horrid thing into
poetic drops of pain.
Damn,
even that makes it seem better
Like a garden words form,
and the weeds are overtaking
but through the soil, a "yes" is finally breaking.
