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.