Empty: Journal Collection - Exhibit C

I thought when      
I left the screen, the pen, the constant tidy/dinners/laundry/floors    
I would be a new woman    
I would write, get my gut back, new truth, new lies and a topographical view; but my news is another channel      
for reruns of mirror image stories whose writer is[clearly] a jack-ass.    
     
I can feel the precious words, poetry distilling 'round the stones into waste, falling out of my brain like a 5 lb. piss after sex      
to swirl through underground tubes with all my other self-appeasing, self-releasing, badly scrawled journal pages      
and my suspicions are justified:  
I am no poet.    
     
I've spilled into the confines of this object mentally vapid, wits filed down to baseball bats where a javelin's required and    
I leave that space to the gossips of time - and laughter - and cynicism.      
Forgive me, my friend, for another blight;    
     
I observe people and whys well enough,    
but here is where the weight is lifted, "and"s are prominent, and no-skill prose can rattle the life out of these limited meanings;    
because even if    
I've seen this script a thousand times it is still taking my virginity, and    
I know    
I won't regret having dirtied my hands, my heart trying to bury my feet. Now    
I can say it as one of the mild joys of settling into who      
I am:    
     
My dear friend,      
I am no poet.