I'm Not a Poet

I’m not a poet.

I’m not.

It’s not in my blood —

it never was, and it never will be.

I think it’s because

I’ve learned and fabricated my thoughts

from always saying the wrong things

at the wrong times

and no one’s ever taught me different.

It never occurred to me

that there was something wrong with me,

until I was reciting sad songs

while my few friends watched closely

as my eyes swelled

and my mouth made the noises

I had practiced the night before in my bedroom

because I was always nervous

in front of people.

It never occurred to me

that there was something wrong with me

until my mom

said depression

was in our blood.

It never occurred to me

that I was seriously fucked up

when I started thinking about death

more than life

or reading fucked up poetry in the bathroom

because I never had time for anything anymore

because I was so caught up in my own head

that I was losing the reality

I’ve finally learned to harvest

in my throat.

But my chest always hurts

and my stomach is always churning,

like the night when my dad went to the hospital

because he thought he had an appendicitis

(he didn’t).

I could never get the words to form

from my chapped lips

because I was always better at writing

than I was at speaking.

I had nicknames in elementary school

for how much I wrote —

stupid nicknames:

"teacher's pet,"

"suck-up."

It never bothered me much,

and it never crossed my mind

that they were picking on me

until a few months ago,

when I called up my friend Keigan,

crying over some poet

I found through my favorite band.

In the introduction

of his poetry book,

“Paper Boats or Some Poems I Wrote,”

he included the words

“If I could go back in time to when I wrote sad poems, I’d go back and punch myself right in the fucking face. Because it gets worse man.”

And I don’t think I missed my childhood

or my stories about kids being forged from fire

and flower petals

and water droplets

more.

Or my stories about kids

who could understand

and talk to their dogs

through their thoughts

(I think it’s called telepathy,

or ESP, but I don't remember.

Fifth grade was so long ago.)

Or the memoirs

Ms. Majority made us write about;

about our favorite family trip

when everyone wrote a page,

two pages tops

while I wrote eight.

That’s how it all started —

and I don’t know.

I think,

lately,

I’ve just wanted to be remembered.

I think — I think I’m going to join the army.

Or the navy.

I just want to be a small town hero,

I guess.

And, hey —

I live in a small town.

It could work.

But I know writing won’t get me

anywhere.

Since when

are writers praised?

Since when

are there special ceremonies

for people

who pour their

sweat and blood

and angst

into ink

to make poems?

Why does it matter?

I'm not a poet,

anyway.