Proud of My Poetry

No no and no

I don’t write like you

I can’t compile the files within my head into

Something long with

Allusions and illusions to

Keep it strong

Swimming through words with a snorkel on

So I can pretend I’m not drowning

And so what if my poetry

Is hooked up into rhyme?

That’s how words come to me.

In rhyme.

I think in rhyme.


And sometimes I make it

Out of four simple lines

Not anything crazy

Bound to burst open your mind

I used to be proud

Of the webs I did mangle

(Now in my mind I suppress the urge to use the word “tangle”)

And the visions I created

And the beat underneath

Like a symphony of sheets—

No no and no.

I can’t even do this.

Because it’s true—this

Urge to write in my own way.

I can’t write like you.

In this poem I have tried

(Again, I resist the urge to use the word “lied”)

But it does nothing for me.

And it honestly bores me.

So I’ll stick to my stanzas

Of ABCB rhyme

And keep them tucked away until that late later time

When I can take them out and not be ashamed

Of something beautiful which this heart has made

The Philolexian Society
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