If I were a poet, I would write with rhyme and rhythm; punching words out with staccato consonants and full vowels.
If I were a poet, There would be a perpetual warning sign hovering over my sex life "fuck at your own risk. You could be the subject of my next piece!"
If I were a poet, I would wake up in the morning and write as I sip my coffee while crashing at my older ex-lover's place.
If I were a poet, I would walk away from lovers without a thought, brooding and silent, passive-aggression and weed my only coping mechanisms.
If I were a poet, I would slice through the thick air of shame and anger and regret with lyrics to the next great Chris Pureka song, rather than slicing my forearm and legs with the razors hidden next to my vibrator in my bedside table.
if I were a poet, I would answer in one word, bottling up my emotions of multi-syllabic, complex sentences so I could release them in verse and rhythm and rhyme.
If I were a poet, I could rhyme. I would understand rhythm outside of the in and out, in and out of fucking...
If I were a poet, I wouldn't cry. I would pop pills and shut down, swallowing Jameson and emotions like air and water.
But I am not a poet.
Instead I sit here staring at a computer, unable to compose words into pieces; unable to use my moleskin for anything other than cryptic notes about work that I never understand after the fact.
Instead I love too hard, and always end up the one with a broken heart... loving too much, stupidly trusting any butch who pretends to give a fuck.
Instead I ride my bike or run each morning, attempting to ground myself, unable to write unless I have some sort of drink in me...
Instead I build playing card castles over drinks of tequila or Jameson neat, out-butching every butch who dares to date me.
Instead I end poems and pieces and relationships and situations abruptly, via text, and by any means necessary as my sister calls it, because there is no other way to do it.... unless and if I were a poet.
If I were a poet, There would be a perpetual warning sign hovering over my sex life "fuck at your own risk. You could be the subject of my next piece!"
If I were a poet, I would wake up in the morning and write as I sip my coffee while crashing at my older ex-lover's place.
If I were a poet, I would walk away from lovers without a thought, brooding and silent, passive-aggression and weed my only coping mechanisms.
If I were a poet, I would slice through the thick air of shame and anger and regret with lyrics to the next great Chris Pureka song, rather than slicing my forearm and legs with the razors hidden next to my vibrator in my bedside table.
if I were a poet, I would answer in one word, bottling up my emotions of multi-syllabic, complex sentences so I could release them in verse and rhythm and rhyme.
If I were a poet, I could rhyme. I would understand rhythm outside of the in and out, in and out of fucking...
If I were a poet, I wouldn't cry. I would pop pills and shut down, swallowing Jameson and emotions like air and water.
But I am not a poet.
Instead I sit here staring at a computer, unable to compose words into pieces; unable to use my moleskin for anything other than cryptic notes about work that I never understand after the fact.
Instead I love too hard, and always end up the one with a broken heart... loving too much, stupidly trusting any butch who pretends to give a fuck.
Instead I ride my bike or run each morning, attempting to ground myself, unable to write unless I have some sort of drink in me...
Instead I build playing card castles over drinks of tequila or Jameson neat, out-butching every butch who dares to date me.
Instead I end poems and pieces and relationships and situations abruptly, via text, and by any means necessary as my sister calls it, because there is no other way to do it.... unless and if I were a poet.
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