squeezing the corpse of dream

she told me
how she wanted
to be a poet
i smiled
not understanding
the confession

well just fucking
write poetry
was my only response

she looked at me
wondering if
it is really
that easy

i shrugged
worst case
it is garbage
best case
it connects
with someone
it isn’t as if
there is
a secret formula
write what
your heart

she started
writing poetry
and it made me
feel good
to see her
follow her dream
even if she
has taken to it
like a donkey
on ice skates

i figure
as long as
i don’t have
to read it
the only harm
is to the poor
bastards that
have to pretend
she has talent
until she
gets bored of
written words

turns out
everyone thinks
they are a
goddamned poet
while i am
just a
goddamned fool
trying to be
left alone
so i can read
my favorite poet
ever beguiling
with wildflowers
entangled in
her perfect prose
dreaming of
her sublime lines
being for me
as the world
burns to cinders
ashes drift
until all that remains
is the afterimage
of my heart
baked into the
wall behind me

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