Here Lies a Non-Poem

I came here to write a Poem

but I am all poem’ed out and and to be fair I don’t think I have ever been poem’ed full, not like Maya Angelou or Robert Frost or Edgar Allen Poe have been, o v e r f l o w i n g with ALL the Poetry.

M U C H P O E T R Y

I’d love to write a poem, you know. I try to rhyme all the time and it works in my mind and then I fall apart over the keyboarasdf goddamn it

There is no right way to write poetry, I think. You live life and let your experiences lie gently on your fingertips so you can prick them and stitch the blood onto a page. But you have to have lived poemfully.

I have lived wrong.

What even counts as poetry? Can someone give me guidelines and a rubric with a clear grading scale so I can take me and my mediocre verses to the sidelines and conform to expectations to at least please the autocracy?

Do you desire formatting?

I thrust

the fucking

format in

your face

and flip you off,

Because I heard somewhere that poetry is rebellion and maybe my vehemence for the fences I built around me will rust them enough so I can escape the crumbling facade—

I don’t know. I don’t KNOW so I’m writing this shitty thing that counts as writing but not meaningful writing, wordvomiting entrails of the known to try to create the unknown

and it’s not working.

So screw this poem

I don’t need to be the next

Shakespeare anyways.