Poetry Helps Me Express Myself

What does poetry mean to me?

There's not much to say other than the fact that it helps me rant

And to asser that fact, I present to thee -

The perfect example of why I love poetry

My turtle ran away

Carapace waddling to wallows on the lake

I’ve got a bit of a migraine

Synapses follow a trail like hounds in my head round and round and round

And it resounds and pounds at the slightest sound to elicit my frown

So much that I can’t be bothered with a rhyme scheme anymore

(It’s not that bad, you just pretend it’s worse)

What the hell, socks are pink in the wash

Like fuzzy flamingo feathers from a gargantuan avian

Rosy and sweet, smelling of feet

I can’t help but trot and call feminine sensitivity

Life could be better

(You think)

But down the street there is a child

Living hollow in a full house as the grown howl

And drum their paws to his agony’s beat

And fill their throats with the devil’s drink

And he sits in his closet in single player hide and seek

A recluse drawn reclusive due to the elusive nature of intrusion

Intrusion that signals a fleeting sense of being loved, an illusion

(That’s what he knows, or thinks he knows to think)

And a little farther on the block I sit next to my best friends

And feel like hardly an acquaintance

And I like to love her and him and them and to listen and to try and help

But I’m not sure how right it is to be left

Worrying about the Calculus test three days down ahead

When one’s got cancer, one’s in poverty and one’s parents are dead

(You’re rhyming rather erratically, the migraine isn’t that bad)

So who the hell am I to feel the fear that they do

The anger that they do, the hate that they do

I’m excluded from a party I don’t want to be wanted at

I’m a bull deemed too small for the slaughter, fat cat among rats

Petty punk enamored with her troubles, the glamour of her perceived pain

But in truth I’m living high above the top of the world

And maybe one day my slate will be uncleaned and fate will fray a little at the seams

And I can belatedly relate to the murky sadness and wallowing hate

But until then I’m coddled, sheltered, protected by a cocoon of happy

Living average as savage normalcy leaves superficial dings and cuts in my shell

While the good men and women around me are ribboned up, cut to pieces

Left to their pain and mortal releases

But what am I doing?  The heck is this?

A half-hearted, pathetic attempt to inject importance in my existence?

A facsimile of the scars one bears (you feel) to show off what they’ve survived?  

(Asshole.)

(You feel the need to feel needed, important, because it’s important to need to feel

And steal away the angst and stow it in a bottle)

(To pop the cork any time you need to languidly bathe in the self-pity and  feed on the remorse

Like a platter of morsels in a scented salted bath)

Because my life is one of those

A gleaming fresh pool of luxury and privilege of every variety

I live well in a life that’s better

And yesterday I promised to myself tomorrow

That today would be the day I decide to skip the angst and fast forward the pride

And get to the quiet credits, where any problems I have aren’t a concern to the others

The ones chained to my life by choice, the willing captive audience

‘cuz I’ve got 99 problems and they ain’t worth one

But I’ve got half a mind to realize

Even if I’ve got a ton, they’re worse than worth none

And I don’t want to garner sympathy or worry from my friends

Because I know the feeling of being where they’ll have been (at that moment)

(in the future)

Where I know the pain of not knowing the pain of someone else

And I’m not worth the trouble, so why bother trying to help

If I’ve got cancer, no money, or dead parents

(Or pink socks or a turtle that’s run away)