This Is Not Poetry

Not-Poetry

This book has no meaning,
It's just a bunch of words,
On digital paper.
And since its not poetry,
The words hardly go together.

And since this book has no meaning,
It's hardly anything special.
It's like a drop of alphabet letters
In an endless sea of literature.

It's too late to change anything,
The words have cornered me into the page.
I can't escape their grasp,
Until all of them are put in their place.

This book is not very attractive.
The cover is plain,
The title on the cover seems a bit too much,
But hey,
At least it's original.

This makes me wonder,
What made you come here?
Was it my vague but intriguing title?
Do you like reading "not-poetry"?
Tell me, what is it?
Is it every other part of literature?
Or is it just poetry that hates itself,
Enough to not be associated with other works?

I don't know why I'm preaching this,
Am I trying to convert poets,
Into "not-poets"?
No,
It wouldn't make sense,
Just like me.
I believe that I myself can't accept the reality,
That I can't escape my poetry.
Even when I try prose,
My rhymes, they sneak past me.
I feel my creativity,
Plotting against me as well.

From this point,
I'm questioning my faith
In "not-poetry",
Because once the words escape my mind,
They start to appear as poetry.
Am I a hypocrite?
Or was I blind to see,
That no matter what I say,
"Not-poetry", is poetry.

Oh what irony...