Catch Some Wide Eye

Confessions to a Bloated Goose


i’m not a poet, but i like to pretend
it’s a wonderful excuse to air out my problems,
skinning them alive for the sake of the art,
preserving the ugly and the dead
in a way that would make Damien Hirst either giggle
or writhe in scorn.
the jury is still deciding which,
but while they’re deliberating,
i will distract the judge with a lovely cup of tea,
and hope he’ll forget about the whole thing.

i’m not a poet, but i like to pretend
because surely MY emotions are IMPORTANT
and everyone wants to know about them
in extreme and tortuous detail,
and besides, i fancy it’d educate the general public
in some small ideology. why yes!
i’m doing them a favor, the poor souls
don’t know quite what it is to feel
the way i feel…
which i’m actually feeling quite awful.
well, that’s inconvenient-
it doesn’t fit my delusions at all!
pity.

i’m not a poet, but i like to pretend
because it keeps me from becoming a novelist
and wouldn’t THAT be a horrid thing?
can you imagine the volumes of rubbish i’d churn out
at 1:02 in the morning
just to keep myself from talking to the walls?
they’d be quite dreadful things, indeed!

i’m not a poet, but i like to pretend
because i love you
and i think maybe somehow this will let you know
but the ball has been sitting in your court for days
and all you do is stare at it like it might explode.
sometimes, you poke it with a stick
and shudder as if it had a gruesome growth,
but most days it’s just more of the staring
and the glaring, and the watching,
and the peering, and the peeking,
and the gazing, and the looking,
and the glancing, it’s so entrancing
but so familiarly boring.
i’m all but ready to grab it and run away!

i’m not a poet, but i like to pretend,
and that’s all that i have left to say.

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