I'm the worst kind of writer...

I'm a poet
And a bad form
uneducated
One at that

You can't write for magazines
Or tour as a best selling author
When you're the worst kind

In fact,
To be frank,
the way you smooth
Your words
across a wrinkled paper
Will almost always
Confuse people

It doesn't pay to be a poet
But it calms the soul
And numbs the pain

And when the doctor tells you
You are killing your Seratonin levels
You think to yourself
Good...
More holes poked in your soul
Somehow opens the door
Or sometimes, the window
Or even, just slightly,
let's in the breeze

And you feel satiated
And vindicated
And somehow
No more sorry for yourself

Because sadness and loneliness
Are your muse
And you play the song's
Sweet crescendo
Like New Orleans Jazz
And move to the rhythm
Of your broken down beat

There is rarely fame
Or fortune
And no one is
knocking down your door
For a piece

The worst kind of writers
Hunt down sadness
And paint words
Across the ceiling
When their bored

And when you think a poet
Is searching your soul
We're really staring off
Into the far reaches
Of our own

But It's only because we
Are trying to find the perfect
Phrase to describe how it's gonna feel
To miss you when you leave

The worst kind of writers
Won't write for sitcoms
Or award winning plays
They don't quote Shakespeare
Or read Frost or Dickinson

But they will read Bukowski
And find genius in his
Weakness for redheads
In the worst kind of way...

02/24/2015

Posted on 02/24/2015
Copyright © 2024 Britt Zimmerman