not so sure I’m genuine, like a stone
or genuine like suede or leather.
not so sure I’m a poet like Plath
or a wannabe poet. I hope to
inspire then I rage forest fires
in my head. I hate to admit I’m
a poet or a writer at a party,
seems like the music lowers
and the spotlight’s on me
and god help me as I blush
and explain the ingredients in my
I listen and smile while drunk,
and claim to be horrible
at cartwheels, but once upon
a time I was a dancer in a show
’tis true, once upon a time
I made cocktails for breakfast.
The ingredients to being a poet
-1 ounce of vodka, ice.
-1 shot of Jack Honey (or half the bottle in my case).
and add some spice (chili for heat)
salt for the demons
pepper for the earth angels
dig deep for the money
there are holes in all my pockets
poetry does not sell
but my soul
is up for grabs.
9.99 a pop.