I want to write poetry
But
What am I to write about?

I could tell you about
The horse I had at 3
That my parents sold at 4,

Or the Taco Bell up the street
That was closed
For selling drugs out the back window,

Or even the time
That my dad crushed an ant
Into our old cement patio
And tears sprang to my eyes because
I was sure that the ant had a family somewhere
Who would expect him home any minute.

But those aren’t very pleasant things
And I’m not able to make rhymes,

So I am forced to face the truth
That maybe
I am not a very pleasant person.