I Tire of Poetry

Elizabeth Roemisch


I tire of poetry.
I tire of trying to make snow represent puppies
And tulips represent death,
And tie it all together.
What you end up with is a mass of rotting animals and plants in slush
And that never sold books...
At least, not well.
I delete the whole thing.

I wish I could write.
If my ass wasn't so fat, I could write.
I should start a diet;
Really stick with it this time.
Until I'm thin like those starving orphans on T.V. whose bellies bloat only from parasites
But thinking of these orphans
While a reader orders an unsweetened tea and a salad with low-calarie ranch on the side
Isn't pleasant
Or cost effective.
I delete the whole thing.

My wrist hurts.
My wrist never hurts when I write my own prose.
My own prose,
As opposed to essay tests where I am slow while I take breaks to gather my thoughts and shake it out.

I wish for my own prose...
I should start that book.
The novel I always tell myself 'I will write'
And 10,000 projects later I don't remember.
Then I'd be rich and not laying on a dirty rug with a quickly cooling green tea and a bag of chips.
Hot tea would make me write.
My mom is wrong -
I'm not broke and unheard of because I don't put my name out there.
It's because my tea is too cold.
Hot tea is my aspiration and...
I delete the whole thing.

God I
I want styles named in English.
Like minimalism and satire.
Not restrictions and rhyme schemes given long, French names by dead white men and given to students who never cared for them because they never cared for the French in the first place.

I want to write,
But I'll never make it in a market
Which asks for beach novels and Harry Potter
And even skilled authors are destroyed
If too many people realize it.
Professional writing becomes a mix of regret, tears, and prostitution wrapped in a glistening bow of spilled ink.
I delete the whole thing.

And before I know it
The cycle of flowery language
And metaphor piled on top of metaphor
And my puppies and orphans and bows
Are gone from the Earth;
Carried by the Grim Reaper renamed Delete Key.
And I'm left with nothing again.

Euphemism Campus Box 4240 Illinois State University, Normal, IL 61790-4240