What is wrong with poetry for the sake of the poet?

The poem?

The sentence?

The word?

The laborious breath translating into declaration


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


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


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


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

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