a line of tired backs and sloping shoulders and wrists bending with words; tell me your stories

and i 

i could be doing my work, 
reading a book
flooding my watercolors accidentally again 
so that all the paint runs down the page in a resigned river
i could be doing any such thing

but instead
in a way that reminds me of musty cottage corners
and the smell of cobwebs and dried-up markers
creaky wooden floors and tinfoil covered gunshot popcorn 

i am writing poetry.

sometimes i wish i could be a Romantic poet
with a capital r and everything
neoclassicism but i write something else

is there a name for modern poetry?
an era for it to inhabit?
free verse, i suppose
but free verse has been here for many generations

i wish there was something for us 
not me, i'm small and repetitive and sad
but the people you stumble upon 
unapologetically recreating the way we see poetry 

a modern-day revolution of words
march of poets young enough to remember our parents' literature
and old enough to know our own 
know that we can write anything we want to 

we can make poetry beautiful to us 
read old, aching books and know that it was left here for us 
and we will use all of the print passed down to us 
and we will remake it and we will revolutionize our own 

millennials, we have so much we've made
throw a rebellion and write our own poetry and i think we could rule the world

(and maybe all the poets could be happy 
just for a little bit 
the youngest not the saddest)

The End

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