writing a “real” poem is hard.
i suppose i’m no poet, after all.
trying to make things rhyme
gets in the way
of what i want to say.
there is a particular voice
in which i want to tell stories,
and it doesn’t match up with the definition
of what this is supposed to be.
the smell of lies are overpowering.
i’m still quite proud of everything i’ve made.
i know it isn’t real,
but even when gone
it exists forever in eternity.
how do you like that one, sucker!
oh no, i’ve got to keep on writing.
i’m set to flood all gardens
with words scattered like seeds,
wild vines bursting forth morning glories
and ivy green for all seasons.
if you are looking at me,
you will be seeing more.
if you look away, i understand,
but i’m not stopping.
this is my show; i’m the star.
pride and reckless creation reign here.
you will come and go,
and that is okay.
i, myself, will leave someday, too.
there will always be change.
i’m growing, my baby, growing my garden,
growing my own strange brew
of a strong voice and odd words
that don’t rhyme right now, but, in another tongue,
in times to come, they will.