I am writing this poem in the hopes that it will be a poem strong
enough to marry me to a destiny with dignity.
I am writing this poem because I have not read it yet, and I am in awe
of what it might one day become or make of me.
I am writing this poem as my “Do Over” my catch up, my way of shaking
a hand called OK, or maybe I am writing it as a bid for immortality.
I am writing this poem because you can’t or you won’t write me a letter
of kindness or send me a plane full of congratulatory roses.
I am writing this poem to you, that’s right to you, you know who you
are, maybe now you will believe I love you and need you completely.
I am writing this poem in my underwear, in front of a screen, early in the
morning that’s why it’s so fresh, dew eyed and new.
I wrote the poem as a premise of a promise, as a demonstration of an
unfailing intention to illuminate loneliness with the light of words.
I wrote the poem, it was me being me, that’s right – ya know how hard
it is to be you, now imagine being you being me writing this poem.
I wrote the poem while listening to city sirens, crafting each into melody’s
and recording them for you my future child of inquiry.
I wrote the poem very simply, using inexpensive ingredients, because you
know how costly and inexplicable words from a dictionary can be.
I wrote the poem anonymously, knowing from the start it was possibly a
forgettable thing, and as such not a poem to append a name too.
I wrote the poem in my underwear, and not naked, because I have no
wish for you to see the birthmark I am hiding on my inner thigh.
The poem, the one that got away, the one that I was trying to write is
making fun of the way this one finally turned out.
The poem, the one perfectly written, is going to be coy and refuse to
comment on this one which was artificially written.
The poem, the one you came here to read, cuz ya heard that Poetman is
awesome, is not here, preferring instead to be away on vacation.
The poem, the one and only one, is trying to uncrumple itself from a
waste basket, and make its case as more than an iteration.
The poem, the one this poem was suppose to be is looking for matches,
promising to come back later and burn my house down.
The poem, the one I wrote in my underwear, the one here that you are
reading is not a failure, nor is it my final attempt at salvation.