I am a poet
And as such, a fool
For it's stories they want
Great tales, heroes too
They want lies and adventure
They don't bother with poems
They'd rather read trash
They want gossip and news
They don't want the truth
They equate poems to math
Poetry is bland
Too tasteless
No ACTION
Give us the movies, the tv, the game
Yet, so am I guilty the same,
I admit
Great poets have stayed
In history writ
But what of today?
I can't name one poet now
Were I not a poet!
Would I even know how?

Wow, what even is this?
Terrible, terrible.
Why do you even bother, it’s no good
Thanks, now get out.
I admit I’m not the next Frost
I may not even be the next anyone.
So, without further ado, I’m sorry.
I apologize.
I’m sorry Blake, Burns, Wordsworth.
I’m sorry Poe, Frost, Ginsburg.
I’m sorry Plath, Petersen, Bremer.
I’m sorry Church, Winter, Dychkowski.
I don’t measure up, I don’t even rhyme
Selfishness is my reason for this
Feelings on paper and thoughts in obscurity
All written without form, no scheme
Is it real if it doesn’t make sense?
I’m not stopping, no, I’ll persevere
But I offer up these apologies to those who are poets
Somehow I got labeled with you
Somehow I ended up here.
Poetry. My one stay. An escape I can always turn to.
I’m sorry.
My apologies.
Forgive my excuse.