What is wrong with poetry for the sake of the poet?
The poem?
The sentence?
The word?
The laborious breath translating into declaration
Why
Can’t these words
Be holy
Because I spoke them?
Not because they carried in their curves the struggle of my people
Can I not ring out a dictionary
And have utter nonsense spill onto my page
Call it poem
Because it captured my breath
Even if it was but a moment
Why can’t it spill tears into a joy that exists
For no extraordinary reason
But
Because it deserves to be happy
Can my poem not just be happy
Laugh at itself
Chortle, cackle, crack up
Because of an unnecessary alliteration
Can my poem not celebrate itself
Because it is alone
Beautiful?
Can my poem not be affirmed
Be told to go off
Simply for the Fact words
Were born of my breath
And survived long enough to hit your ears
And there were no casualties
And there was no call to mourn them
This
Is a calling out
A cry
For a poem that does not have to break itself or break my heart to make somebody crack a smile
This poem is not a sonic boom
It is not the salvation my broken world has thirsted for
This poem is somewhat selfish
Meant to feed none but itself
It will not shake the earth
Nor will I ask it to
Because my poem
Is a portion of me
And that
Is enough
