Sleeping Through the End of the World

I’m no poet,

I figured that out a while ago now.

I can mush words together and

Make weird noises with my lips.

But they don’t make sense.

They don’t mean much.

It’s not hard for me to come up with a

Good metaphor or two.

But yanking deep thoughts from my own brain

Is like pulling wisdom teeth.

To be honest, I’d rather write

The cold hard truth:

I can’t make my writing beautiful;

Wrap it in figurative language and

Tie it with a bow.

But I can imitate impostors

And sing like a genius.

I only pray that you never know

That I’m only just scratching the surface.

I’d much rather sleep through

The end of the world

Than try to convince myself of being something I’m not.

I’m no poet because I can’t make beautiful memoirs

Out of broken memories.