I’m Not A Poet

I am not a poet
But sometimes I feel
Like I should write poetry.

I’m not a poet
But sometimes I want to
String together words
Beautifully
Dazzingly
Elegantly
Gorgeously
Gracefully
Stunningly.

I’m not a poet
Because
I used thesaurus.com
To come up with those words.

I’m not a poet
But maybe
The words I string together
Will make someone gasp
Or touch their chest
Or smile in understanding
Or just say “huh.”

I’m not a poet,
But sometimes it feels like
My emotions can’t be properly expressed
By prose
Like they need

line

breaks

and
beautiful language
To let them
Live
Breathe
Exist
To validate them.

I’m not a poet
Because my brain
Is allergic to the sincerity
That poetry requires.

I’m not a poet
Though sometimes
I do stand on my fire escape
Looking at the blank city sky
Watching planes fly to O’Hare
Wondering what are any of us doing here.
The only thing missing is
A cigarette.

Am I not a poet
Because I don’t smoke?
No,
That’s not it.

I am not a poet
Because
I cannot wrap my head around
Meter
And rhyming makes me feel
Inadequate.

I’m not a poet,
Because
I shop too much at Old Navy
To be the kind of free spirit
That I feel like the
Strict structure
Of poetry requires.

I do not want to be a poet.
But I also don’t not want to be a poet.

I find myself becoming
Obsessed
With the ways in which my brain
doesn’t work.

I couldn’t wrap my head around math
As it got more theoretical.
Why doesn’t my brain work that way?

I can’t start a casual conversation with a stranger.
Why doesn’t my brain work that way?

My brain gets stuck on ideas like car in mud
And my wheels spin
As the other cars drive by

Why doesn’t my brain work that way?

I read other people’s writing
Beautiful Words
Big Ideas
Boiled Down to their
Very essence.

And I wonder,

Why doesn’t my brain work like that?