Neato Burrito

So I've been going to this poetry slam,

And sometimes I think I could write poetry.

I leave all inspired

Then sit and think about what to write

Or how to space it all fancy

Like the "real" poets.

But then I think...

Why would I share and open up to these strangers?

They get every metaphor, or backwards sentence I try to hide behind.

They peer into personal stuff through poems I volunteer to read.

Maybe all together poets are the enemy

Maybe all together they crumble walls and install windows to peer into your mess

To spread these things they call "feelings"

Maybe all together they are the ones I should avoid

Instead of parents, doctors, and therapists.

Because they are the ones with the not so sad but understanding eyes

They are the ones that know, listen, and understand, but make me cry.

Well, great!

I've talked myself out of another hole in the wall,

Another place of acceptance.