It’s not as bad as it sounds, uh–
Maybe my poetry was, but the experience was not. Yes, if you did not already know, I take college courses in all my spare time–I mean, when I am not procuring car keys from the toilet and burning t-shirts while preheating the stove. I, for what ever reason ended up in a creative writing course where, unbeknownst to me, the first half of it was poetry.
The following will explain it all (or provoke you to never want to read my blog again… whichever)
Nothing to Write About
What to write about?
A parade of dirty diapers,
Me, in the front yard, barefoot,
covered in questionable substances that might cure Ebola.
Screaming at half-ready children
while my neighbors sit in sun chairs
drinking orange juice (mixed with Vodka).
I should charge admission.
No tales of the carpool line,
an impatient, frizzy-haired mother,
convinced I can go faster than the stopped car in front of me.
Or the lady in charge,
frantically flailing her hands and arms in panic.
The middle digit of my car rider number is
blocked by my Black Coconut air freshener.
I rush to move it
Facing a looming deadline
and burnt chicken,
I scramble for inspiration.
My kids take it upon themselves to assist:
Unicorns pooping chocolate bars and farting rainbows—
“Do You Want to Build a Snowman?”
I want to build a poem.
I sit watching a blinking curser.
like an order of chili cheese fries on a day I forgot to bring Tums.