Poetry's not that important

I love poetry.
I wish I could be a more prolific poet.
A poet accustomed to producing beauty
as though it was a mechanic quality,
whose pen wields words
sharp like daggers
that, upon mere utterance,
slice through the paper
on which they are written.
But I'm not that poet.

I write poetry as it comes.
That is, I have to wait
patiently
for something
or someone
to light a fire under my ass
so big that it will continue to burn
unless I suffocate it with my pen.

I'm sure other poets have easier
and surely much safer ways
of gathering inspiration,
but I'm not about to sit on fires
looking for it.
I love poetry
but it's not that important.

No, instead I'll lavish in angst alone
without poetry's help,
extinguishing the inital flames
of small campfires
with distractions and smiles,
until the day when a fire
so monstruous and uncontrollable
fries me
and sizzles my ass
to the point of crispiness,
leaving third-degree burns
and permanent scarring.


Then I'll write the poem of my life.