Poetry is a Mediocre Diary
There is no good way to really start a poem
and by far
This is the third time I've tried to find a line to begin this
Which will never be the line that could best cooperate with myself
to get what I want.
So I could start my push
into talking about several things
Like how literary poetry is so different in nature to slam poetry, and why I think
both are good
But one is fine art, and the other is a diary
and why I wish that there was
at least once
one that could be a beautiful gouache landscape of entries in someone's life that used more word tricks than I have hair.
Because I want to have new bursts of thoughts that someone puts in me
when I can't make my own.
It's so hard to make my own.
I could talk about my mother who
when I was younger
was a demon that ravaged my psychology
until I was scared not of the boogiemen that I knew for certain hid within the dark.
Because mom was a thing
That could exist in any degree of light.
Could exist at any time.
That had touched me before with a cold unforgiving hand
Or would meakly grapple onto me as a tether in the coldest himalayan climb of her life.
I want to hate her, but instead
there was a tiny crack of sympathy left somewhere in the halls of that house
somewhere that god couldn't see, but it was still my house
I knew my house
And I used it when she'd changed.
I never speak forgivness to my friends when they tell of of a boyfriend
or a mother
or an aunt
or a father
that uses their words and their hands and their friends and their power like cat o' nine tails.
Do I stand here and speak of freedom and sing songs of independence
This is not by most means
My thoughts are just a manefestation that nearly everyone else has
Like when a child realizes that death is for everyone
or the teenager thinks of the theory that everyone but them isn't real.
And yet each one is a miracle when I hear about them
a tiny fireworks show of self awareness draped over in black cloth by the monotony of basic human evolution.
This poem will never be much.
if I get around to it.
But this is once again, like a diary
and not so much fine art.