Hate that poetry is you.
Hate that poetry makes you.
Hate that you become your poetry.

How do you survive
knowing that you're feelings are your
own

It makes it easier to write if they're not

Poetry
and
your Identity
like saying my ID is older than yours
therefore I am ancient

As boredom swallows each of my parts whole,

with every one goes a slice of joyful time.

To me will come a trepidation bowl,

which transforms into soreness I rhyme.

This poem seems to relish misery

that I do not appreciate greatly.

It drills and grinds away at patience’s teeth

alike an overpaid dentist stately.

The unskilled hygienist throws up her tools,

because the very poem is persistent

like a tenacious patient with strict rules

to whom floss is extremely resistant.

This sonnet, while providing me with grief,

becomes a fight of pain, with no relief.

Do you mind now?

I am trivial in mind and size

Who looks if no one can find me?

I am one of the cats

Desert me here and we’ll coexist

Can’t you see I’m not used to this?

I’m sure of step, but this is not mine

Why did it start entirely without me?

I am a shadow helping within

Keep calm; I’ll help you stand solitary

I remembered my haiku
I found it in my closet
and remembered my forgetfulness
and regretted my forgetfulness
and remembered my regrets
and forgot my haiku again.

i wanted to write a haiku
but i forgot it
the words in the wind
i let the colors fly

I can’t remember why
I forgot it
but now there’s nothing left to
hold.