Poetry (mis) Guide

No master of poetry
The words flow out along the paper in

NONSENSE
Where did they ever get the idea
That I was a poet?
Words don't describe anything, only attempt
So be the celebrated witty writer.
My poems are in song and written
On a scrap of paper, or
A cardboard box.
I fear the time of growing up
All the poetry hides, not in my heart
But in my feet and toes
So far down inside me
That I can't find it
Until I'm lying in bed
My legs are propped up
So all the dreams drift from my depths
Up into my head
I'm almost sleeping
But I need to write this symphony
Of awful words that flit about
On the nerves in my brain.
The thoughts, they are terrible,
Their meaning is clear, but put it into letters
And they become soiled, filthy.
I want to shout out the intelligible ideas
And I cannot, everyone is sleeping
(Stream of Consciousness)
And the sea, it never changes, the sky is too ...
Green, not quite right.
This, I told you before, "No master of poetry,"
Yet, don't speak of Valentine's Day
Because I couldn't describe it.
That's all, you be the poet now, take these writings
I am arm-in-arm with my new guides, touch and music.
But take my purple hand,
So you can finish this poem, like a master.

by M. L., Arlington, MA