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Poem

The master once told me
All the things I shouldn’t do when I write poetry.
I shouldn’t ensnare my reader with a complex plot 
Forcing them to fight their way out of my lines.
I shouldn’t entrap them with language
Hiding my meaning underneath layers of flowery effusions
But the master did not say what to do
And neither did he say what poetry is.
And my mind jumps rope with questions of metaphysics-
Is poetry only poetry when it pours forth out of mind 
And onto paper.
Or do I see poetry? 
Do I touch it when I roll the windows down, feeling the cool breeze
Draping my hand lazily out the window
As if to grasp another’s
Their hand always just out of reach
As I cruise down this straight shot and into an eternity.

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