sometimes I manage to produce a poem
that I’m proud of
and someone may ask me
“how do you write so well?”
and I wish the answer was easy
like: “Yep, I just eat an egg shell every morning
wash it down with some OJ
and that’s where all the good ideas come from.”
but they don’t
they come from this brain
this brain that never shuts up
that insists on convincing me
that my friends hate me
and that I’ll never amount to anything
the very same brain that taunts me constantly
will, every once in a while,
give me a decent thought
and that’s the problem
because if I cut the connection to the crazy
I lose the poet
and I love the poet
she’s hilariously cynical and has the best sense of humor
but as my favorite TV show character
loves to remind us
all magic comes with a price
but this magic is confusing within itself
because the poet is often sad
she sometimes joins the heckling of the brain
encourages the eternal damnation of the heart
and loves to run experiments
on the chemicals of my mind
like oooh let’s see, what if
we take away all of the motivation
increase sarcasm to 85%
and, just for fun,
add a constant feeling of numbness
let’s see what happens
and then, when she feels like it,
she’ll start whispering lines
and I translate them to paper
sometimes I manage to produce a poem
that I’m proud of
and someone may ask me
“how do you write so well?”
and I wish the answer was easy
at least as easy as they think it is
but they don’t know the poet
so I smile and simply say
“she comes with a price”
