The Perfect Poem

i don’t know how to write a poem
i just never learned
so i fumble around with words
and add paragraph breaks

for beats

and most of my lines start with and
                  i never know if i want to indent

and sometimes I capitalize and sometimes i don’t
i wish i knew why
i really have no reason to flip flop
other than sometimes i’m too tired to press the shift key

even apostrophes and commas seem out of place, but i can’t not use them

and i worry, you know?
that there’s not enough rhyme
but i hate poems that rhyme all the time
and time is such a cheap thing to rhyme
with rhyme
everybody rhymes time with rhyme
and every time i rhyme i feel like doctor fucking seuss

              more accurately

a kid reading doctor seuss
because this whole poetry thing
it feels like a big scary world
and i’m just a kid playing with jing tinglers and flu floopers
and other shit i can’t understand
and one of these days i’ll get burned by a blum blooper and i’ll
    want to write poetry
and maybe that will be for everyone’s benefit

because i feel like a fraud
doing this
once a week or however often
i think about all the people i know who don’t read poems or care about them
looking at my poetry and wondering what the fuck happened to me
and they’ll never bring it up
which is for the best

i don’t know how to write poems
they never feel long enough
and i like them for a night and hate them in the morning
and in the morning i want to change them
but it’s never right
and maybe that’s why i love poetry
even though i hate it


the game of love is an instinct we can’t pull away from
a series of one night stands
followed by wanting to change your lover into someone you’re happy loving
but you’re never happy
are you?

i’m never happy
with my poems
so i must love them

the search is timeless
it’s an animal thing deep down inside


even though
you will never find perfection
and if you do
that means it’s the end of the story
and you might as well die

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