writing shitty, third-string poetry. boldly dubbing it ‘poetry’ anyway. then rhyming poetry with poetry in a so-called poem. knowing that we all have to start somewhere and this is your clean slate. the previous writer at the coffee shop gifted a warm window seat, the free Wi-Fi password, and a slightly weathered stick of chalk, neon pink. the freckles on our fingertips glow in the dark.
Month: August 2018
This is for
the unpublished drafts
the phone notes
the changing of the font
and calling that a poem
the “for what it’s worth I’m sorry”
if sorry could be plural
for existing, maybe
for being there, sometimes
for not being there, enough
for showing up
and talking down
for myself
for others
for hitting “publish”
because your brain demands
at 11:33 pm Eastern Standard Time
that this is right
that this has to get out
that these prepositions
go against everything
that middle school grammar book said
when you read it obsessively
to prepare for a pop quiz
so you could always be the best
on paper, that is
but you don’t care
about those silly rules
anymore
Que será, será.