…and she was like,
“Your prose is already extremely poetic.”
Which was curious,
to me,
Because I knew it was true.

But when offered verses and lines and rhymes,
I find myself dropping from my flight;
or more accurately my flow,
and I forget what way I need to go,
So instead I reach for the objective
forget about death and just look front to live.

My poetry is, most of the time,
stupidly concrete.
Nothing whimsical about it all.
Just a lot of nothing.

And by that I don’t mean that there’s nothing in my poems,
more like I put so much in it
that it feels odd
for there to be so little.
Only a few verses or stanzas
to secure dozens and millions of colors and words
Down onto a page.
Or a document.

It feels like rebellion.
But it also feels like home.