Feelings On Paper

This isn't a poem

This isn't a poem,
I won't rhyme,
and I won't use metaphors.

This isn't a poem,
because my understanding of the language you are reading this now,
is unfortunately limited.

Ósea, no se de que hablo—
Sorry, my mind has slipped off into spanish—
God, I'm so sorry,
I can barely even say words without a lisp.

Right,
you can't hear my lisp,
my slight accent,
or the mispronunciations of such basic words.

This isn't a poem,
due to the fact that I can't understand my own emotions.

This isn't a poem,
because I'm young and unexperienced.

Can't you tell by the way I speak?
Like, obviously, just listen to my tone,
the slang I use,
is totes' not respectful of poetry.

Right,
you can't hear me talking,
it's almost as if this is just writing,
and you are quick to judge it without even glancing at it.

This isn't a poem,
I won't repeat myself again.

This isn't a poem,
shit, fuck, my bad, I did it anyways.

See, I can't control my form,
it's not traditional,
I only use commas and space out my stanzas—

That isn't poetry;
other than I just broke that pattern.

Would you look at that,
I've done it again—

This isn't a poem,
I've cussed in a sacred work of art.

This isn't a poem,
because I'm just calling you out for your uneducated remarks.

Poetry never came with a template,
nor rules in which language to use,
which articulations to place,
and how to format your words.

I'm so deeply sorry my art has offended you,
just because I am not —
GASP—
a native english speaker.

This isn't a poem,
because of such things I say.

This isn't a poem,
because honestly, suck my dick.