I do not write poetry.
I write lines of blocky text, runaway runes tamed in paragraph form and schooled in punctuation.
You used the wrong "their" there.
I write Events, and People, and Meanings.
Except, you know, when sometimes a space belongs right
My dear, you think that's dramatic, don't you?
Yes, ma'am. Sometimes.
But sometimes ma'am's glasses glint just so that the sheen hides her eyes in rodeo streetlights in heaven, and logic blurs around the edges.
Sometimes the words run away and my thoughts fly into present tense and punctuation heads for the hills as I am reduced to scratching shadows on cave walls and that's okay because it's just one long unalterable ever-changing changeling Thought as I hurt my mothers and fighters and kings, bleed them into the keys with mercilessly bad metaphors and terribly thoughtless thoughts and flagrant abuse of conjunctions.
And ma'am stands in the center ring, enveloped by scorched earth and asinine love and the ineffable rollicking, roaring, burning crowd and just
But I do not write poetry.
I just fill the blank page with pretty words and give it a clever title.
The poetry, if it so chooses,
(It never does. This isn't poetry, you see. You'll tell me it's good anyway.)
And ma'am puts on her top hat, cheap glitter-gold spangles like drunken
Written for a class and partially designed to annoy the teacher, who dislikes cheaters like me who write one-word lines. Ha ha. Reviews appreciated.