i’m not a poet.

i’m not a poet.

I wish I was.

sometimes I pretend to be.

but im not.

im not eloquent.

nor descriptive.

I hate quatrains

& limericks

& ABAB

whatever the hell that is.

I hate rhyming.

& poetic timing.

reading in between the line-ing.

& trying

to

finding….

something.

fuck.

I suck

at poetry.

I pretend I enjoy Cummings.

but in truth

I d o n t

g e t

t h a t

s h i t.

what is he playing at?

just say the damn thing.

don’t make me theorize.

i’ll make up some interpretation-

“ah yes, the lipstick is an allusion to Marilyn Monroe’s affair with JFK.”

and

“you would think that the yellow means happiness,

but it actually means sadness.

because the poet was depressed.”

why are all poets depressed?

maybe im depressed.

but

im not

a poet.

and now im overthinking the line about marilyn

because its longer than the rest.

God forbid it be longer than the rest.

damn I hate poetry.

I hate the pressure that comes with

carrying a journal around

to jot down my

beautiful

reflections on life.

what does it mean

if my journal is empty?

do I fill it with grocery lists?

and pretend im a poet then?

“eggs.

milk.

certified organic 100% non-fat gluten free keto vegan grass fed water.

…..groceries.”

am I poet now?

is my grocery list provocative enough?

pretty enough?

vague enough?

i’m not a poet.

leave the limericks to the Irish,

Cummings to his psychosis,

and me to my grocery lists.

should I write this down?