Stumbling into a room
Innebriated, flushed
Sweat collects heavily
Over your brow
A shaky forefinger
Thrown into faces
Of strangers in the hall
And then back at me
Swears used as adjectives
You tell the tales
Of the disappointment
You can't help but feel
When you look at me
I find myself apologizing
For carrying your genes
For knowing you
For being born with your name
I find myself apologizing
And though I don't say it
I'm really apologizing
For not being as valuable
To you as whiskey.

Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just
pretentious?

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?