I am not a poet. Contemplating inner turmoil;
searching for incontrovertible truths; cloaking
observations of mundane events, extraordinary
desires, painful experiences in inscrutable metaphors—
all hallmarks of praise-worthy poetry—
just exasperates me.
This is not a poem. It lacks form and meter,
ambiguity and symbolism, not to mention
fragmentary phrasing. It may contain what
some term poetic diction, but only by accident.
Also, it doesn’t rhyme, or deploy playful alliteration
so favored in light verses.
I simply don’t think like a poet, write like a poet.
What I do is wait until a small crack in perceived
reality unveils the farce lying hidden behind quests
for power, love, riches, contentment, or just
a good restaurant. Then I describe what I see,
exactly as I see it, in what is not a poem,
although it might sound like one… sometimes.