i wish i was a black poet or a woman with a twisted ankle even a teenager filled with brooding angst because then my poems would hold more weight people would listen i could recite them with my eyes closed brow furrowed, talking with fists my throat swollen with passion i'd get applause -- an ovation even for spitting on the microphone at poetry night blowing the roof off destroying walls seeing all rooms at once instead of despondent laughter in an empty bar the clinking of glasses and the obligatory whisky after.
but i'm white and only in my twenties living in a vaccuum nothing terrible has ever happened to me sure, i have problems
but who the **** wants to hear about not learning how to tie my shoes until i was 9?
quitting every sport, not because i was bad merely because i wasn't the greatest to ever play and no longer saw the point?
adhd and couch surfing in new orleans?
how hard it was to learn to roll the perfect joint when i was 17?
the fact that i had an itchy ******* last month but switched to organic detergent now it's a field of velvet daffodils down there?
no one's posting youtube videos about doing laundry on a tuesday not meeting a pretty girl at the laundromat instead teaching a mexican boy multiplication tables and a couple jokes, then leaving with half your clothes still ***** because you gave the boy the rest of your change to buy a girl he likes a pack of her favorite gum tomorrow or losing your cell phone until thursday afternoon then the bill collectors start calling
i have good credit i bought a used honda last year at a good interest rate, i haven't missed a payment i'm never bothered at airport security i live alone, take my coffee black or with cream and sugar write checks and balance a budget on sunday mornings hate cats, never vote or testify in court i went swimming yesterday laid down in thatched grass, alone don't smoke anymore quit drinking too don't own a boat time moves so fast i cook, sometimes with wine friends seldom visit i stand on the balcony, naked my house is quiet except when it isn't and jazz floods the kitchen i dance through the hallway with an invisible lover and she drifts silently away uninterested in my melancholy poem as i slosh sweetened tea on my bare chest i hang on she hangs up