I tried to write a love poem,
But I got mixed up in the white foam
Of the waters of bliss and compassion.
The ink bled on the paper,
And the lines of rhymes about the misty vapor
Of summer and longing and waiting
Just washed away.

So I tried to write something funny,
But my humor was thin and runny,
Like an egg someone hucked at a bad comedian.
The words of mirth suddenly turned on me,
Gave birth to a tiring tragedy,
And I found myself frowning
So much more than laughing.

So I thought up haikus and I wrote them down,
Anticipating the harmonious sound
Of Nature’s simple joy.
But seventeen syllables?
It’s not worth it,
When in so little space you can’t unearth
The beauty and harmony you’re trying to describe.

Then I sat down, thought awhile,
And lifting my head began to smile
At just how silly I’m sure I had been acting.
See, a poem doesn’t have to be about love,
Or Mother Nature’s stars above,
Or something your best friend told you just last week.
?
The real reason a poem is made
Is to say ANYTHING you have to say,
Not rhyme or stanzas or all that ABACADE kind of trash.
You can talk about anything you please—
The smell of a rose or the lumps on your knees
As long as it’s YOU talking about that car you crashed.

So when you get down to it,
You’ve got to just think through it;
Don’t waste your time following rules, then giving up.

Now there’s something I know, and you should know it:
NEVER say, “I’m not a poet,”
‘Cause although I bet you didn’t know it,
If you’re not a poet, no one is.
Are you?