sometimes i think to be a poet
i should remove that flower from up there at the top of this page
take away. erase it. photoshop. begone. scat.
adios little blue blossom of my heart
cause ain't no real nobody gonna take me seriously
with that little girl hope up there
like paintin' with pretty colors across a torn canvas
makes no sense. makes no art. makes no nothing
but people rollin' they eyes at who do she think she is
all small magic and imperfections
and snickerin' behind their hands while shootin' each other
looks i know all too well.
i live in this town where art don't dwell
not for long anyway, and seldom,
and i know those looks of who do she think she foolin'
with those words and talkin' 'bout flowers on the ground
like that be poetry or even anything
and shit, they say, we don't even know this wrong side of the tracks
magic nonsense girl, and it mean she don't exist if we say so,
she just writin' for nothin'
that's the way you do it
and damn sure her art ain't nothin', we know art and this ain't it
them guys ain't dumb
and double damn sure she ain't no poet cause, excuse me, where be the rhymes?
maybe get a blister on your little finger
and they snicker again
and then i think i need more flowers at the top of the page
maybe get a blister on your thumb
cause they ain't gonna take me seriously unless i got a bluebonnet or 2
on the page
and i am caught in the middle of a place called what? and nowhere
always sayin' all the wrong stuff
i shoulda learned to play the guitar
too serious or too silly and no way i fit in
i shoulda learned to play them drums
and so the flower stays cause what the hell
and why not and screw it
and i will talk about the cardinals singing the morning awake if i want to.
that ain't workin'
that's the way you do it.
day 6 of NaPoWriMo, national poetry writing month.
a poem a day.
words in italics:
money for nothing: dire straits. written by mark knopfler & sting