I wrote you a poem,
‘n then I ripped it to shreds,
dosed it in gas,
set it ablaze.
‘n stared in silence for days ‘n days.
I climbed mountains,
‘n I followed rivers,
grew with the trees,
broke with the stone.
Wrote that down too,
before I hit it with a sledge,
trampled it,
wrote a grocery list over it.
Now I’m here starin’ at this bleak white,
‘n there ain’t nothin’, nothin’ left to write.
I am the poet,
‘n this is progress.
This is freedom.
This is right.
