There's poetry in everything
They said
But I'm sure they meant
Ballerinas and sunlit meadows
And not corpses and politics
Sure there's something pretty
About a grave
When it doesn't belong to anyone you know
But I saw a paper mask
In a puddle on the asphalt
Slick with shimmering chemical rainbows
I took a photo
And maybe there's a poem in there
But I mostly felt uneasy
And I think to myself
This isn't timeless
Like I haven't written poetry
That only speaks a fragment of time
This isn't beauty
Like poetry is always meant to be pretty
Not ugly and crushing
Burning from the inside out
I think
There are millions of poets
Screaming out words
People with more loss and suffering
Whose lines bear more meaning
Than mine ever could
And that's probably true
I can't say anything
That hasn't already been said
Written better by someone else
The poignant needle driven heartwards
But I saw a bit of paper in the rain
And everything felt so heavy
A sad not to end on, tbh.
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