Poem Four Hundred and Fifteen

All day I had a fire storm buzzing in my brains.

Had your name on thoughts

Tagged like all the posts you never manage to have the time to read.

And I was furious with the world.

Furious with you for breaking things you didn’t know you had your fingers on.

And I tried worshiping at the feet of great poets.

Tried breathing in their words

In hopes that my next exhale would sound half as good as theirs.

I was sick of being ignored and tossed in the back

Like the fourth child of a family that was tired two children before.

And then I saw it

The glimmer of light on my horizon

That signaled these stormy clouds

Were far from my bed.

Something so messed up

So discombobulated

My sleeping pill drowsy eyes couldn’t comprehend it.

And I don’t care if it’s just the pills kicking in

Or if it’s truly something I can’t understand

But it reminded me that even great poets

Write slop.

That even my worst poems

Are worth writing

Because the bad poets

Are the ones who stop writing.

So you are still a great poet with your misconstrued words I can’t understand.

Take no offense at these slurred syllables.

Do not think them stones tossed to tear you down

No arrow has left my bow aimed at your heart.

Just know that just because I’m brave enough

To throw everything I write

Up onto a screen for people to read

Doesn’t make me any less of a writer than you.

You may have the skill

You may have the experience

You may have the fan base

But I

I have the heart to weather the storm.

By the way this is the 415^th poem I’ve written in 287 days.