My tiff with poetry
You don’t bring me money,
You don’t give me time to be perfect for my honey.
It’s got to be a pseudonym,
Your real name
Has to be something far less beautiful,
Something filled with shame.
The elite say prose is really literature.
It’s either that or a journalism major.
Or try to be a comedian for a shameless fee
Which is far beneath my words, but still better than me.
You don’t bring me money
You only bring me sunshine, now I have to be funny.
You have to make my partner cry,
As in my bed alone he lies;
I play my guitar, drunk, free verse
And I’m enjoying it completely, I don’t know what’s worse:
That I’m having more fun alone with you than I’ve had with many
Or that after all these years, you’ve brought me no money.
What talks of money are you giving me now?
Is it something that bothers you, that you have a misshapen brow?
Or a wardrobe almost empty or no wardrobe at all?
Have you no food? Have you begun to grow small?
Have you not begun to feed on my diet, religiously?
You wake up to music, and with it you sleep peacefully.
If it weren’t for the birds in the sky, you’d have no reason to live.
So pardon me, I left you stranded in a beautiful world, you must forgive
Me for my presence in yourself and many more
Who want to break out of a prison to a life they adore.
I need to give no reason for bringing you here
You needed to smell these flowers, and feel the fires of your fear.
Forget the commas and the stops
Think of what your mind wants to drop
Ignore the shame and the blasphemy
Hand your hands a pair:
A pen and paper for your despair,
And write me, beautiful poetry.
And then you’ll see,
The love that will come roaring with the waves
Pulling you out from your darkness, into the light of the sea.
And then you’d know,
only because of me, you’d see:
You never did want that honey,
You never needed no money.