which means my words can’t come off odd because I can’t right the
wrong with a blank sheet of paper,
my mind is in the dark for the first time in a galaxy’s orbit-
see, that pun is incorrect

every idea is, they are hunted and killed before
being born, crumpled up and thrown into a dumpster
before my paper of words grew wings, no apology from I, the poet,
because the terrific verses run away and the no-no, bad grammar, zero sense of punctuation type of words are here to stay-

they regret their existences and try to hide from me, from my wickedness, the moody cruelty words are treated with because this poet can do better, but they can’t loosen out from my tight grip that strangles my pen and bruises my paper because I search every star in my mind’s galaxy (is that pun right this time?)

searching through an expansive sky of words to mix and match, and I will not stop until this curse is broken, because I am a real poet and real poets don’t halt when lines get dull, concepts get tough,
Real poets play hide-and-seek with words until the majestic poem becomes missing no more.