there's a journalist
in my head
who is ruining my poems.
the guy is a perfectionist,
a cynic,
a “social butterfly".
i like the guy, but i can't publish a poem
or a book of poems,
an anthology, if i may.
i'm deep
i want to be vulnerable.
i like money
i want to make sales.
but this guy apparently has
a reputation
to protect.
i tried sneaking into the articles he writes,
but he held me by the back of my pants
and kicked me out
like a cat.
who put a journalist
and a poet
in the same head?
there's a journalist
in my head
who is ruining my poems.
he wants the lines
to read Harvard English.
i just want to tell the truth;
dump my frustration and delight
somewhere.
i want to write lines
showing the reader
who I am
without
PEERING into the dictionary
for a different word.
i want to write a verse about the charming evening
sun
stroking his moustache
with a pipe between his lips,
without being told it's foolish.
he's an overthinker.
a workaholic.
i guess he's the way he is
'cause he pays our rent
and buys our fits.
suits and ties and official shoes.
he likes following rules.
i don’t.
so i sneer
at tucking-in the shirt.
i have to crawl out of bed
to feed his social life.
but I don’t have fun or scoop drinks as he does.
when we're out
i look for poems,
seeking to answer questions like,
"what is the meaning of life?
is it special occasions,
fine dine,
sparkling wine?
or a family around a fire?
with tea
and friendly satire?"
but for him
he looks for stories.
stories, he’ll discard later.
but that’s him
always finding the wrong
in things.
there's a journalist
in my head
who is ruining my poems.
it's been years now
so i've learnt
to live with him.
and don't be the fool
at home
he's messy
and not as cool.
he pays the rent,
fills the room
with papers and books.
we'll probably write
something together
and publish.
i'll empty my emotions
and let him polish.
in my head
who is ruining my poems.
the guy is a perfectionist,
a cynic,
a “social butterfly".
i like the guy, but i can't publish a poem
or a book of poems,
an anthology, if i may.
i'm deep
i want to be vulnerable.
i like money
i want to make sales.
but this guy apparently has
a reputation
to protect.
i tried sneaking into the articles he writes,
but he held me by the back of my pants
and kicked me out
like a cat.
who put a journalist
and a poet
in the same head?
there's a journalist
in my head
who is ruining my poems.
he wants the lines
to read Harvard English.
i just want to tell the truth;
dump my frustration and delight
somewhere.
i want to write lines
showing the reader
who I am
without
PEERING into the dictionary
for a different word.
i want to write a verse about the charming evening
sun
stroking his moustache
with a pipe between his lips,
without being told it's foolish.
he's an overthinker.
a workaholic.
i guess he's the way he is
'cause he pays our rent
and buys our fits.
suits and ties and official shoes.
he likes following rules.
i don’t.
so i sneer
at tucking-in the shirt.
i have to crawl out of bed
to feed his social life.
but I don’t have fun or scoop drinks as he does.
when we're out
i look for poems,
seeking to answer questions like,
"what is the meaning of life?
is it special occasions,
fine dine,
sparkling wine?
or a family around a fire?
with tea
and friendly satire?"
but for him
he looks for stories.
stories, he’ll discard later.
but that’s him
always finding the wrong
in things.
there's a journalist
in my head
who is ruining my poems.
it's been years now
so i've learnt
to live with him.
and don't be the fool
at home
he's messy
and not as cool.
he pays the rent,
fills the room
with papers and books.
we'll probably write
something together
and publish.
i'll empty my emotions
and let him polish.