31/365

the problem is—
it’s much harder
than just letting it drip out
like this.

sure the little snapshots,
diary entries
and clever quips
feel good and are easy

but surely these are not poems.

where is the revision,
the intensity,
the literary devises?
not to say anything about
beauty
or fucking meaning.

these drab little
puddles are barely
more than jokes,
observations,
social media posts.

call me
when you’ve found
depth:
start with the poem about
the barber shop
or the power of
kittens and their connection
to gentle masculinity

or the mechanical march
of the magical mundane.

call me
when you’ve found
anything
better than this.