the reason that i'm such a terrible poet

the reason that i'm such

a terrible poet

is that i have nothing

of myself to put into my work.

 

why would people want to read

a stanza of downcast glances

and eyes rubbed red

of cigarettes smoked, fringed

and forgotten until they burn

me out of dull dazes,

 

of fingers tapping trailed off words

like one winged butterflies, only a tragedy

in that they might be beautiful,

but like all beautiful things

fall under their own weight

of ephemeral perfections.

 

who would want a poem

to wrestle horse blinders over their head,

forced to imagine life as one beautiful track,

one rosy lens our hearts can race upon

ad nauseum to catharsis like some cheap hooker

avoiding eye contact.

 

i want a poem that really fucks.

a poem that is imperfect

dirty,

and wrong

a poem that grinds hungover teeth

and glorifies all of life's miracles

that don't happen.

i want a cross armed,

weary-eyed former dreamer

who can't pay rent

or any other expectation.

who doesn't change for the better

at the volta,

and forgets their rhymes

like unwatered plants.

 

the reason that i'm such

a terrible poet

is that i have nothing

pretty to lie about.

 

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