Of all the hair brained ideas,

I thought I could write poetry.

Without any training,

without an MFA,

here I sit pounding out words.

Who do I think I am?

Poetry is for the intellectuals,

those who look the part, 

a bit strung out,

giving you that pensive gaze.

They are the ones who know,

what the iambic means.

They have rhythm, in their words.

Mine just lay there,

like vomit on the street,

curdling in the summer sun,

smelling just as bad.

Sure, I’ve read the instructions,

I’ve read and listened,

hell, I’ve even taken a lesson.

Yet, really what do I know,

a poor excuse for a poet,

relying on only words,

trying to make sense of it all.

My feelings laid bare,

my doubts and fears exposed.

Yet, I write, write write,

if not I think my head will explode,

or worse, I’ll implode. 

So I’ll continue with poetry,

and poor prose,

committing words to paper,

and one day my dream,

will be carried forward,

by those who follow.

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