I was told to write poetry.
Uninspired, unintentional poetry.
Clichés running through my mind,
Write about love, about death, about Mom, Dad
Gay, straight, chairs, phones, technology, pugs.
I settled on poetry.
Bad poetry, specifically. Should I rhyme?
I don’t have the time.
See what I did there.
This isn’t art, we never were.
You remind me of bad poetry, all lines
No substance, I could hardly read your
Face, contorted like a Shakespearean sonnet.
Always too confusing for me.
A little too revealing,
You smelled like coffee and newsprint.
I dropped you like my AP Composition class,
Always too hard, with never enough benefits.
And now, you make me write bad poetry,
The irony you left behind, like your sweater
I can still smell you on my skin
When I hold it, hold you
Come back to me.
Coping out with a line like that,
And ending this poem abruptly.
You remind me of bad poetry.