Angel

I finished this just in time for EGGTOBER!!!!!

My literary career has been a flop. Scorned by the finest poetry journals

mocked by their editors, always expected to fork out for publication costs. Yet

nothing can deter me from writing, it is a germ in my body. It is immaterial

whether I have an audience, the compulsion is forever. If you come across my poetry

cast your eye over my life, look at these determined lines. Nobody can quell their fire.

Once I start

cancelling 

poetry readings

for health reasons

I imagine

the end

shall be near

because

I live

for my verse

I love

to tinker

with the mic

shuffle my papers

recite

with a voice

laden with honey

so my audience

forgets

all her woes

I revel

I soar

I am indulgent

I milk the applause.

everything I do is wrong.

Every movement is out of place,

every thought is blurred,

every word is torn from my mind,

in your eyes.

Brown irises,

like autumn leaves,

on october nights.

Warm and full of depth.

Your hand on my shoulder,

fleeting,

yet burned into my mind.

Your morals similar as mine,

your voice my favorite melody,

I could listen for hours.

I could make a list but not today. I will someday, promise.

This sentence and the previous one are certainly not poetic

although one can argue they vaguely resemble ones that are.

I don’t know where the poem begins.

Maybe here.

Or here.

But not here— that would be too obvious.

A poet might know the difference.

I only know I’ve been wrong before and will be again,

which, annoyingly, sounds almost like a line.

At this point a poet would pull out a swan.

I only have this grocery list.

And it’s mostly bananas.

So, maybe the point is not to know, but to keep trying anyway.