Maybe I Am No Poet At All
This poem was a forest fire; it burned me up as I read it
I was supposedly the writer.
But was I?
Voices inside me are laughing, taking credit, kicking me to the curb.
My next poem is a blizzard.
She whirls me into a whiteness.
This turns into marshmallow crème.
I am quiet for a second,
Landing in a drift, head first, but there is no coolness.
Snow without coldness is not a poem at all.
It’s a fake poem like fake news.
I believe it best to give up now.
Maybe I am no poet at all but a prancing pony
Two steeds prance up. Dragging Cinderella’s coach.
Do not use Cinderella! My muse says meanly.
I stick out my tongue.
Cinderella, Cinderella, Cinderella.
I am easily distracted when imagination is giving me instruction.
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