To this day,
your name
still hurts my tongue
but I still say it anyway.
Sometimes I like to
hear my soul
gently tear itself
apart.

And over time,
My pen stopped bleeding
But my heart didn't

Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just
pretentious?

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?

a cat died
under a tree
today
the macho cat
I knew well
of his
notorious
fair share
of kids
of fights
of conquest
under a tree
he laid

approachable by
encircling flies

under a tree
laid stiff
leaping
feet snarling
jaws and
rapier claws
useless
now
frozed
by death
still poised
to fight for
a last time.