I Think It's Time

I think it’s time for my poetry to find a new home. It never really liked the weather here and it always got sand stuck in its shoes. I think it’s time to leave this sultry surrounding that has given my poetry chapped lips and left it with a desert growing in its mouth. It’s time to take out these knives stuck in my baby poetry’s guts – like the sharp edges of these tall tall towers. It’s time to forget these orange faces with lonely souls. Lonely like a cat dying on the streets at 2 AM. Like a butcher’s eyes. Like the cute girl with the lisp. Like the old pious man working at that alcohol store. My poetry has spent too many hours building blocks under the sun when they were bound to fall apart. My poetry has seen way too many gigantic malls and has met more insignificant people than it should in its natural life-span. My poetry ought to revolt now before it is too late. It ought to rebel. Like the small pieces of glass that were missed while cleaning. Like the scar on a single 35 year old woman’s face that refuses to be concealed with cosmetics. Like the appearing and re-appearing of a salesman’s true accent. My poetry was never content here anyway, it always worked extra-hours at a minimum wage. The closest my poetry ever got to friendship was watching the pure sight of it and smelling the stench of its odor. In fact, my poetry should leave this suffocating chain of envious antagonists who pretended not to care that it was published. I think it’s time for my poetry to pack its things and get the hell out of here.