A Real Poem
A ‘real’ poem
I’ve been told my words would hold more meaning
in a real poetry format. Perhaps so. A real poet
would know exactly what that means. Here’s the
thing: Medium won’t let me space the lines as
I would like to. I don’t want double spaces, but have
no idea how to order it to suit me, neither do I really
care to learn. I’ve jumped through enough hoops in
my 62 years. I can jump (not quite as high) but prefer
to save my energy. Here’s the other thing: I dislike
being challenged. I should welcome differing opinions
which help me grow, but I see it as criticism, as questioning
my ability, my talent, my intelligence. I see it as judgement,
raised the way I was (what are you, stupid?) A real poetry
format looks like something I don’t comprehend, which makes
me ignorant (not stupid). Now I’m curious. I’ll get back to you
with a real poem (here’s the other thing: the words come first.
How you lay them on the page is your whimsical prerogative
(such a ridiculous spelling, I admit I looked it up. We say it wrong)).
If
I’m trying to slow you down, get you to breathe, I’ll leave a lot
of room between words and sentences
so you can’t fly through them.
I’m not so much interested in ‘flow’ as ‘truth’. It’s my story. I tell
it the way I like. So this is *not* a poem, dear reader, don’t be
comfused (a typo but I’m leaving it). These are my thoughts,
early morning, laid out improperly in a boxy non-poetic format
but here’s the thing: no matter how and where I lay them, my
words are me, dirt under their nails and leaves in their crazy
hair and a wry smile over those who think they need to fix
them up a bit and make them more presentable.
The worst of my past has hit me in the chest, and I wanted to
be snarky but rose above it. I am growing!
Wherever I fling my words, wherever they end up, misplaced and
dirty, here’s the thing: I am growing.
LBM 8/24/2020
