The Problem With Poetry

The problem with poetry
is that it leaves no room.

With poetry, there is no
“to be continued” or next
installment
or even the most basic
epilogue.

With poetry, there
is no bullshit
no room for wiggle
for hiding.

The white space, just
as important as the squiggled letters.
In poetry, your split-second
emotion posted, plastered
on the page
and you don’t get the chance to say

“I realized I was wrong”

or “and then he apologized”

or “I got over it”

or “and she survived.”

The problem with poetry
is that you feel like a liar
because you give part of the story
even though the point is to give a mere glimpse
a doll house window’s view
of life.

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