by Sarah Kay
Without question, you are the worst thing that ever happened to my poetry.
And I’m serious, I’ve heard about writer’s block
but this- is ridiculous.
My poetic fluidity has dried up faster than
a woman hitting menopause to the
point where this dry spells got me praying
for some inspirational discharge to leak
from the folds of grey matter in my brain and…shit!
See what I mean?
I’ve been thinking for far too long
with my heart instead of my head,
and I think people may be starting to notice
and I’ve got a reputation to uphold!
And no it’s not my time of the month, so don’t ask.
It’s my time of the day, or what used to be,
when I could sit down and write a really gritty, angry poem,
one that just seething with angst- but now I can’t!
Because you make me too damn.. happy!
Or should I say sappy?
Because I used to watch Face the Nation
for international news,
and then the Daily Show for international hope,
turn out great political satire ripe with biting wit and sarcasm…
but now I can’t!
Because I don’t watch those shows anymore,
because you’ve got me watching the stars-
and I don’t mean Brad and Angelina,
no- I mean those stars.
You’ve got me watching them,
thinking about whether you’re watching
the same ones as I am and-
maybe that would make a good poem?
And, and, and… this is crap!
Like a slap across the face of my muse
who’s had to withstand so much abuse
she’s threatened to leave my side,
leave my mind!
I try to tell her: please, it’s just not a good time,
but she leaves me with my pleas
and really bad rhymes and-
I can’t do this anymore!
I refuse to let my words sink to such levels of atrocity,
refuse to submit to
“Roses are red, violets are blue, my poetry sucks and it’s all thanks to you!”
But I rack my mind for moments that arent’s ridiculous
romanticism and irrelevant metaphors like-
dipping my hands and tongue into the
paint can of my mind,
I splatter gooey gobs of thought against the wall,
then watching as the rest of the world
tries to make sense of my lovesick babble,
they come with black sharpies and
try to connect the dots,
forming man-made constellations
from my nonsensical thoughts…
And this has to stop!
Because speaking in abstract metaphors
so that you think I have a more
poetic view on the world than you is against my poetic ethics.
Which, rhymes with ethnic,
which, incidentally is one more poem
topic you have rendered useless.
Because I’m a hoppa, means
I’m of mixed blood,
which means I never fit inside the check-mark box,
I always fall between the cracks,
and always writing about finding my culture,
or where I belong.
But those poems have fallen to the wayside
as I find I belong up against your chest,
your arms around my back,
my head under you chin, eyes closed.
I sit down to write a poem,
and the only thing in my head is you-
and I don’t understand why you could be the worst thing
that could ever happen to my poetry,
if you’re the best that ever happened to me.