Writing a poem is like  a therapy session with no therapist

You see

You load a pen with emotion

And let it spill  out onto a lifeless piece of paper

And you cover it with anger and sadness

As pen strokes create crystal castles

Or china shops

And for some reason

You hope by the end of the poem

That it somehow comforts you

Every second

Every minor detail

Every line

Forms a moment that will be preserved forever on a piece of paper…

But that’s just it

Its just a piece of paper

It can’t relate to you

Or  pat you on the back

It can’t give you a hug

It’s just a conversation with yourself

And I don’t find myself helpful

So to all you poets that find comfort in paper

Let this piece be the bull to your china shop.