Am I moving backwards because I don't think
twice about my line breaks? Some say
stay put on the publishing, just follow
your dream, write your heart out, right
the wrong out. But honestly, I'm speechless,
penless, wondering where are my senses.
This feel like music but I have no rhythm
in my rhymes. After all, feelings don't really
matter so I gather all of this up and throw
it in a trunk with a lock. It will catch
dust because it already caught dreams. My
paper, a dream catcher, the one place I spill
my anger, where honesty and destiny meet.
I am not an artist. I am a robot controlled
by editors I will never meet because they label
my work as amateur. Maybe it is but I've already
lost too much of the child in me and sometimes I
just want to feel the breeze while I swing,
rather than the criticism. I want to cheat
on uno and checkers instead of the fake words
I write, I lie. So poetry says that this isn't
concrete and there's no imagery. I discount poetry
and say this paper is my dream catcher, catching
dust on your desk, the place I come to quit.
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