she wasn't exactly nice before this
We are sticks and bones,
I lied to a teacher today
Told her I don't write poetry
How could I admit to her
That when she prattles on about
And repetitive sentence structure
And wide vocabulary usage,
I know everything she does.
Do not be surprised at my inclusion of
Indefatigable, brittle, asinine,
These are words I use on a daily basis,
Do you think I am a child?
She appears to laugh, delighted,
And I bristle when she suggests I change a stanza
I know what I'm trying to say,
I want to tell her, voice filled with indignation,
Yes, I meant to do that.
She says "You are a poet, my friend,"
And I want to bark at her,
I already knew that I was
Do not call me friend
This is a sore spot,
Of course it is -
I am a sore person.
She says, "Call it 'Unbreakable',"
But I find that horrifyingly simple,
Simpering, it does not fit the poem.
So I name it something else,
Something that scrapes at my tongue
And sends shivers of pain through my teeth
Because that is what a real title sounds like.
And I bury myself in my words,
Tuck myself in at night between
'quagmire' and 'cajole'.
You may see this as a thin veil,
But I see this as my skin.
And I don't need someone to tell me that.