ode to poetry

I like to pretend

That poetry is a medium

For me to say

Whatever’s on my mind.

It used to work well in the past

When I just started out

Helped to keep the walls from falling down

And crushing me under their weight.

Lately, though, I feel

It’d be better if I just gave up on this dream of mine

Get a job

Get married

You know, settle down.

Rebelling has never worked in my favour

Yet the role of an author is

To howl

To explore

To be not a member of polite society.

Better put,

It is to speak the truth

By telling lies.

I’m not going to let Bukowski or

Dickinson down

I’ll live no matter what

Because you can never

Put a goddamn price on

Art.