I Am Not A Poet

I am not a poet. I am unfortunately the audience member who won’t sit down and shut up. The night spot regular who feels obligated to share his ability to memorize lines that just so happen to rhyme occasionally.

No I am not a poet. You see it’s just that I write to live. And I’ve been told that true poets write for a living. And I don’t wanna be giving anybody the impression, that my chest’s expansion and my diaphragm’s compression is interferin’ with feeding their chirin’ so. excuse me if it’s cool. Well, is it cool? Preciate’ it.

No I’m not a poet. Cause’ poets get all the women, It’s already a given that I’m apt to tap any crap of cat if I want that cause I’m just that cute. Then she hears I can sing too? Shoot! So how would that reflect on my character if. Let’s say your names Erica. Erica here, came with her dear here to hear sheer genius, and it just so happens that this week’s piece isn’t about peace but my piece. ‘Scuze me penis. Then I get to spitting’ that freaky sh*t. Just to see how weak she gets. Like, “Girl I wanna give it to you in the worst way like it’s your birthday. From first base to home plate I’ll knock it out. You know what I’m talking bout’? I’m talking soaked sheets and ceiling fans. Shaking knees and flailing hands, angled rams, knocking divots in your diaphragm until you’re hardly breathing if we be heathens then God Damn!” Then I stop. Cause’ she done got to sweating like it’s hotter than Armageddon and forgetting who she came with. Then I get to spitting’ some game sh*t like any lady in here tonight, that wanna feel what that be like come holla’ at me if you’re just that curious. And now he’s mad at me, cause she just that curious. And done got all furious and wanna’ fight, but forgot when I got on the mic. I told him I wasn’t a poet, and he forgot but now he know it cause’ he gotta take his nose and hold it. Like this. So he don’t get his good shirt messed up.

No I am not a poet. I’m the guy on the sideline waiting for the over-thrusted corner three to come to me so I can have, just one shot. And if I make it.I’ma’ run through the park and shake Kidd’s like Jason. Or highlight my sneakers green so that my turbo’s on and run all the way home and remember that I’m grown and I left my car back at the gym.

Yo, I am not a poet. I am poetry’s enemy. I am talent undefined. Or to be poetic. I’m the inexplicable lift of the bumble bee. So don’t think it’s belittling to come to me and humble me with words like, “Algie you suck.” Cause it’s true. I suck the raw emotion out of you and transfer it to composite fibers via graphite. And if it’s that tight, I’ll let you hear it. You forced me to write it in the first place. As to not let words waste I dictate.

I am not a poet. I am unfortunately the audience member who won’t sit down and shut up.

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