random totally

i'm exclaiming
about how bent i am
i have no idea
about
the way i like to say things.
i have a way
i go about it,
and it's just
predictable.
i read it back and
it sounds so disdainfully contrived
that i can't even read it again.
so, i start over.
line one.
something.
something good.
no. something amazing.
ah, nothing amazing.
i put it down.
i step away.
i step away.
i keep stepping away.
now i'm in the back of the room.
i'm out the door and gone.
i didn't finish,
start,
or even plan
on how to write what i wanted to write.
it was there.
it eluded me as soon as i sat down to grab it
that's my dilemma with poetry today.
there is no way i can just write it down.
it's there.
it's too good an idea
for me to transcribe.
it's an all condemning stupidity now.
and that's this poem.
it talks about itself.
i talk about it.
it's alive right now.
as I'm writing it.
it's just going.
It has a terrible cadence right there--
that's just awful.
Just
one line after the other
going break.
break.
break.
something else I do if I don't pay attention.
I always wanted to be a poet.
A great poet.
Someone people would like to think about in passing--
maybe put in their cards, or read some of my more somber
poetry in teary eulogies.
but no.
no no no.
no way. Not me. It won't happen to me.
This is how my thought truly is.