Once, but maybe a few times more
We wrote in stanzas
But only metaphorical ones
We destroyed the idea of form
We formed in new legions of wonder
Weighed the pros and cons of writing in Shakespeare prose
And only made vague attempts at balancing the shift of Pangea
We tried, but only hardly, to write unwritten poetry
Following Ginsberg, Bukowski, and Rimbaud
Rambling rewritten phrases because the first thought never seemed like the best thought
I only gave my poems little thought
But its an idea that I never got or gave
We are only as original as the books we write in
Moleskine jounals bought at cole’s for far more than they were worth
We searched for pennies for our thoughts fulfilling the starving artist archetype
The only type of arch I achieved was only momentary
The moments felt terrible while we were in them
Writing and writing and writing until it became habit and we did it in slo-mo
Habitual line after line only feeling the need to repeat the process to impress
The impression I received was more post-modern than it was van gogh
I signed all my poems “r mutt” and tried to ask tired questions like “whats the point”
I sound like myself mixed with all the other nihilist
I wrote my future in secondary journals and only used it as a backup when I felt lost
I just used it to rip up preconceived notions I gave birth to in earlier months
When love was an option instead of unrequited love
I took the easier path because I knew I could only rely on not having to reciprocate
It’s the same way with poetry I knew it never had to like me back
The depth of my words never had to be more the a kiddie pool
Ive always related more to a puddle that only existed after an extreme morning dew
I want my ink to come off under water so I shower with my book
I want my words to never be read and wash myself dirty with them
I want to stain my skin with my own bad ideas
I wish I could tattoo my own self-righteous words on my forehead but I could never commit to one favourite line one long enough
All the poems I write are to stream of consciousness to last forever
I feel like im just finding these in the river of my thoughts
That runs shallow too
I fish but only using a magnetic rod
The hook-line-and-sinker of sinking opportunities
If I fish up something good i'll just throw it back
I could never keep an idea for myself
It always needs to be shared
My ideas have grown an ego too
Mass-egotism spreading into all my works maliciously
The ego never ends
The poems never end
But maybe one day
They will
But before then
I promised myself
It would run a marathon