Pasta

They ask, “what is poetry?”
I’d give them a bowl of spaghetti.
Naturally they’re taken aback.
No surprise about that

Still I’d tell them,

“Here, take a bowl of my tiny soul.
If you look into it well enough
You would know that it’s not just a mush of twenty-six alphabets
See, I took the sticky dough that composes my mind
And shoved it through the tiny holes I call standards
And carefully pulled out the strands of words.

I’d tell them,

“Then I would pour the red sauce, my personal favorite,
That I cooked up with my blood and tears.
If you taste them correctly, a voice will sneak into your minds
And speak their reality.
Although it may hurt, that way you will see.
That’s my poetry.”

I would tell them, but I think they weren’t listening because
They would just drink up the whole thing like hungry savages.
And I would quietly stand there in awe
Because they wouldn’t understand.

Everyone has a little pond in their mind
And here I got some pebbles to throw into the water

The rocks bounce around the rocky floor
making ripples that I didn’t mean to make
But I still have a mission to stare into that verbal chaos
And become a creator of meanings

So when I spit out these pebbles, don’t be upset
you can cover your ears and let me pass
But a poet is someone who gathers something out of nothing
So please, let me be a poet.

I’m not saying life is a game
And I’m not saying people are just a compilation of data
But sometimes
Sometimes
A call that you ignored
A few words, usually three
Or that letter you forgot to send
Can erase you from them without a trace
As if you carelessly pressed the...

I’m not saying life is a game,
And I’m not saying people are just a compilation of data
But sometimes...