nothing like reading
other people’s poems
to make me feel like
a fraud
a fake poet made out of
three tiny actors
in a trenchcoat
a fake poet made of
a whole slew of fake mustaches
attached to fake noses
and prescriptionless plastic glasses
a fake poet made of
a whole buncha prose
lined up
in shorter
stanzas
a fake poet made out of
experiences
pondered
[but maybe
that’s all a
poet needs to be]
my poetry skims
from hopeless to full of hope
from desolate depression
to wide eyed optimism
and i know i should really live
in the grey-based reality in-between
but dreamers gotta dream…
i used to be so impressed
by those folks who sat
in a courtyard and offered
immediate poetry for any who asked
but i feel
after nearly two full years
of daily writing
and spouting
whatever comes to the top of my poet-brain
i could probably buy a typewriter
and park myself in any park in the city
and ask for only tips in a jar
and write and write and write for others
and maybe that
would be an artist’s life
for me
kipventures 