Feel Me

My poem was rejected so I did what I do best

Get drunk and fuck

Compare myself to other poets

And think about how Bukowski didn’t give a shit

Because I don’t use big and complex words

I don’t gift wrap my sentences with pretty ribbons and string

And I don’t write about how the leaves sway in the soft afternoon light

I write from the bottom of my empty gut

As I scrape the pieces off with my pen

And feel like my chest is a pinata at a nine year old’s Birthday party

Without parents to clean up the mess afterwards

And how I move through my days like a gladiator

Because it takes every ounce of my being

To stop shaking and breathe normally

So I don’t write with the intention of sounding like a fucking poet

I write because there is no other way for me

And I want you to think

Fuck, I feel that too


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