My poetry is not for you. No analysis. No reflection. No judgement. My poetry is not for you. To ignore. To read. To enjoy. My poetry is not for you. For my soul. For my tears. For my brokenness. Not for you.
I’m a poet who can’t read, my brain is short wired Quick to chance the distractions. Boggle the memory. Get sedated by the medications. I can’t read like those polished professionals who grew up with an educated father and maternal, well-versed mother. I’m not interested in scanning lines of dead texted when I now have the freedom to watch a screen. I’m apologize. Were you talking to me?