Bad poetry

I love poetry, I love words. I love that we can string them together. I love when words don’t make sense because isn’t that what we really are about? We don’t make sense. “Head and heart” they say. You’re supposed to listen to one and follow the other. Ha, and here is the kicker, the two are supposedly always at war with each other.

Head and heart. That’s some bad poetry. Isn’t it just so that we get to excuse our shallow and bad decisions? Because head said no but heart said go? I don’t know much about the science of conscience but head and heart? You know like in the sitcoms when miniature versions of the hero stand on either of his shoulders? One dressed in white and the other in red with horns brandishing the devil’s staff? The one in white being the voice of reason and the other being the evil conscience. Head and heart, bad poetry.

I guess in a way it makes sense that we are drawn to bad poetry. That we create bad poetry. See, I’m not a poetry critic and I don’t think anyone should claim to wield that power. Poetry is it’s own critic. When you write poetry, you do not own it, it owns you. When you do a slam, the words read you. The letters on the page remain the same but that slight tremble in your voice as you hold back the tears? That swelling in your chest? That is poetry. Great poetry.

So yes, I speak to all the boys that ever wrote me a poem because I said I loved poetry. You never did.

All I ever saw were colourful words. Something about my red dress and birds chirping. Something about the coast and how much you loved trains. Something about how other girls flocked to you like a swarm of bees. The similes were nice, the poetry was bad.