Sub: Poem#1987(Poetry)

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

All engines burning on Fiction

Lately, I have not written poetry.

It is hard to believe, surrounded

By humans and animals.

 

It is barely spring.

It is barely five.

The smoker outside

Is barely alive.

Children push siblings in carriages

Shaking powdered cinnamon

On tall, light, mocha frappuccinos.

Only differences between daughter and mother

Are stature and amateur body language.

Travel through this painted life

Absorb it into my irises;

Spill it out in ink symbols.

 

Magazines do not accept poems

About writing.

What do you want from us?

My poems reflect my life.

Who am I writing for?

Is it you?

Is it me?

Egotistical Payday

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

You’re a writer

If you can put down the pen

Then pick it back up.

 

Is this art?

Or self-mutilation?

More like endless process.

 

You need experience for work.

You need work for experience.

It makes my spine hurt.

 

They told me to go to university

Or I will end up flipping burgers.

Now, burger flipping requires:

 

Five years working experience,

Bilingual skills,

The completion of an unpaid internship.

 

We treat money like a human right,

Priced by hours in your life.

I’m a professional fine-dining measure for poison.

 

If sipping coffee, staining ink into bleached page was a paid gig.

I could don a powdered wig

And light cigarettes with burning Benjamin Franklins.