A Misunderstanding of Poetry

Fuck Poetry.

Me n' Shakespeare used to sit at the pub swapping sonnets over a pint.

Give me a funny-lookin' hat

with a feather in it,

then I can say: thou, whence, becomest, thereforehenceforth, and

honorificabilitudinitatibus.

I'll make you beautiful, Poetry.

I don't read poetry

in bars.

I want poetry

to be,

not to

not to be:

Epic and classic.

Battle and gore.

Sword and shield.

Heart and valor.

Love and loss.

Sometimes I just don't understand you, Poetry.

Dude,

ya know,

like,

seriously.

Is that poetry?

That is the question.

Yes.

God damn it, Poetry;

I misunderstood ya.

A poem needs not bide by recipes.

So take a sonnet and stir it up, add ice.

You drink it down and puke up poetry.

It can be anything, because poetry is about expressing yourself anyway you want to.

Poetry is not limited and never should be.

There is poetry in 

pumping

gasoline,

riding

a bike,

making love.

Poetry is war.

Poetry is conversation.

Poetry is obsessively organizing your sock drawer in color order.

Poetry is at the bottom of your glass,

bursting with every foamy bubble.

I look around

at what used to be nothing,

but now 

I see

something.

I see Shakespeare in a barstool and a glass of beer.

I see Poetry.