My soul’s too old

To have Poetry.

The Ink don’t write no more.

Got a dictionary to find meaning,

But ain’t sure how to use the words.

I try to put it down on paper,

End up using the eraser.

But the feeling is still there.

Life gave me a story,

Don’t want to publish it.

It got nothing good enough to sell.

Borrowed my brother’s life,

Threw it in a blender with my papa marrying many wives.

Salted it with Rockwell,

Ain’t nothing misspelled,

Just doesn’t look like the truth.

Ripped it up,

Turned me into third person,

Made HER bio mine,

Spoke to a sage,

He gave me wisdom,

Didn’t listen at all,

Just transcribed.

Another girl,

Another life,

Another philosophy.


They’ll buy.

When it’s fiction,

They forgive the lie.


One thought on “UNenTitleD

  1. Pingback: Spring! – A Saturday Poetry Post | Lyrical Anarchy

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