Linguistic Crime

I find that as a writer
I'm not very good
At using colorful language
Or creating vivid imagery
In a person's mind
With only words.
I'm really good at black and white
Cut and dry and to the point
Descriptions
Of thoughts inside my head
But I cannot paint a scene
Of sadness,
Contempt,
Or peace
With flowers and trees and glistening analogies
Like other poets do.
I like to use the same words
In all my crappy poems.
It's not that I'm opposed to other words
Or that I don't know anything elsr
I just figure that the words I choose
Are fine to use
Time and rhyme again
And if its not broke,
Don't fix it.
Maybe my poetic voice
Is not matured quite yet
But I think part of the poetic life
Is finding said voice
And maybe my voice
Is not made up of
Flowers or trees or beautifully crafted analogies.
Maybe my voice
Is still a little awkward
And a trifle clunky.
I'm still learning how to walk
On my wobbly writer's knees
Still learning to convey
The words I want to say
Into written words on paper
Because my speaking voice is soft.
But even if these knees are shaking
It's still a first step
And maybe my poetic voice
Just isn't matured yet.
Maybe my poetic voice
Is not a voice that's talked,
But instead a journey walked
From one word to the next.
My journey isn't pretty.
No flowers, trees, or streams.
But I'd rather have honest words
Because I'm really good at black and white
Cut
Dry
And
To
The
Point
Without the gooeys in between.

I am not like the other poets.
I start with a free verse
Then fall into a rhyme,
Fragments, no punctuation,
I commit linguistic crime

But I'm uncomfortable with justice.
I like to write freely.

So lock me up in poet jail.
I'll write on the walls until they're full
I won't follow any rules
I'll raise all kinds of hell
Because my poetic voice ain't pretty.
It's a pistol. It's not well.
It's vulgar, rude, and gruesome.
But I like it pretty well.

I am not like the other poets.
I am not meant to be.
My poetic voice is growing now
And I will write for me.

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