It’s a strange position.
Being a poet means you have to pay attention.
You have to drink a lot and
Do a little bit of drugs
But then you have to quit.
You have to forgive everybody.
You have to stop spitting at
Yourself in the mirror.
You have to read books.
You can never give up.
The poems are out there.
Watch the families leave the church.
Their lives are epic.
Their lives are cinema.
Watch this old wrinkled man
Shut the door to the bathroom stall.
He has a small brown paper bag and
He is smiling, smiling, smiling.
Watch the traffic go by.
They are sheep who learned to drive.
Its up to you to save them.
Smother little explosions in your heart and
Write them down later in a notebook.
You finally admit that you miss your dad.
You should have done things differently.
You want to call your mom.
The wind comes in flavors.
The music plays between your ears
At all times.
It wont stop.
Its your life’s soundtrack.
The most beautiful girl in the world
Makes you some coffee and
You’re so sad you’re happy.
You cry until you feel good.
You drive down the street you grew up on and
You feel the sun in your stomach.
You’re on a mission.
You’re Charles Bukowski’s bastard child.
You’re a warrior from the ancient plains.
Jump off this building.
You will fly.
You can’t kill a poet.
Copyright Tim D.