(or lack thereof…)

People say poetry is the great.

People say it's the quintessential gateway to expression and beauty.

People say a lot of things…

As I sit in a classroom much too spacious

With the gentle hum of distant birds and leaf-blowers

I sleepily glance at my fellow poets:

Each hold looks of indifference toward our professor's words.

Did they perchance already know the material?

I certainly didn't.

Despite the instruction and encouragement

The pen shakes and skitters from my direction

As ants from a magnifying glass, and

Though I produce coherent lines there is

No artistic majesty, no eloquence.

Ballads baffle me;

Syllables stupefy me;

Anaphoras annoy me; and

Villanelles vexate my notions of what

Makes a poem.

Admittedly I'm guilty of relying solely on doing

Bare minimum.

I'm selfish for instant gratification, of

Immediate clarity.

In this regard, in the face of my level-headed and theatric cohorts,

Sitting behind tabletops of jet black with desire to verse, I

Am but an onlooker and

An outcast.

Call me impatient, call me callous;

Call me lazy, call me over-zealous;

Whatever you may say,

I am no poet.

To a man of fiction, direct and simple,

Poetry to me seems restrictive and complicated.

In this sense you could call me a simpleton.

But I know what I am and

What I am not, and poetry is not

My cup of tea.

To those who take to poetry like doves to the flock

I give you my praise.

But yours is a sky I wish not, nor dare to

Take flight upon.