Dear Poetry,
My life is a musical because of you.
Each day, a hatchery of imagery.
The sky and clouds whisked
with my grey urbanity.
Some may try to squeeze you,
knee on windpipe,
sock in mouth.
Put you in a box,
six-feet underground,
or prop you on a pedestal,
tell you to have more pedigree.
Tell you to deny yourself rhyme,
to deny yourself uncouth vocabulary
if you want to be first degree.
Tell you your mind is naughty,
but not me.
I love you unconditionally.
To build new structures with
words and lines
an architect of asymmetry.
I’m grateful for each blank page,
each frothy, white sea
which waits to be dived into.
Oh, the juicy pulp of my existence
in your glass squeezed.
Thank you, my poetry.
©2023 | K. Hartless
GloPoWriMo #12 Today, I challenge you to write a poem that addresses itself or some aspect of its self (i.e., “Dear Poem,” or “what are my quatrains up to?”; “Couplet, come with me . . .”) This might seem a little “meta” at first, or even kind of cheesy. But it can be a great way of interrogating (or at least, asking polite questions) of your own writing process and the motivations you have for writing, and the motivations you ascribe to your readers.
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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