I used to say my soul was full of prose, not poetry.
I said this because I was afraid that deep down, there was a poet residing in me, a bad one with more fervor than skill, and that he was just waiting to drip overwrought melodrama onto a page.
With prose you can build a fortress of words, but with poetry you dismantle your walls, leaving yourself exposed and vulnerable.
I wasn’t willing to be vulnerable that way, so I forced my poet into the garret of my mind, where he continued to scribble lines. Sometimes they bleed through into a short story or appear hidden innocuously inside a paragraph of prose. Sometimes they manifest as a thought while I try to put a feeling into words.
I poured myself out for you and I ran down your body into the sand beneath your feet where I was absorbed, unseen
And after ruminating on the nature of poetry and jotting down notes I got dressed for a walk and discovered I was wearing my underwear inside out, which is the real reason I could never be a successful poet. The universe will never, ever let me take myself seriously long enough for that.
Everybody poops some imp in my brain whispers, gleefully, and my poet slams the door to his garret and curls up into an overwrought, melodramatic fetal position.