I Wish I Was the Poet : The Bee

THIS !!!!!

Wallace Stevens wrote his poems to the beat his shoes would make, So I was trying to do that, but I can't walk straight, One foot before the other, but tick and stutter here, A man yell you are ****

I say, leave me the **** alone Now my red, yellow teeth, skin, and gums have shown weakness, Me, I’ll be slaughtered, him, fed. I pray, don't let this be the end while you still stuttering, Say that [__] again. I plead with powers I do not believe, a vulture, The shadow circles the half-dead, half-spoiled, Mean easy to kill, means easy to eat, please cease.

My last thought was, "I wish I was the poet." I wish that this was just a poem, and I wrote it, Because to call me a poet is to call me a god. If this was my poem, I would have ended just me standing alone.

Once a man told me he fantasizes about saving the world, I said, "I lie awake at night trying to save myself as a little girl."

This was my poem, I would have been brutal, Made every woman's last fantasy fruitful, Not a stutter nor a fall, no, at his catcall, I would skin him from the eyes, if this was my poem, You'd hear only his cries, make his windpipe mine. I would wear his body, the armors of men which keep them alive, Evil men. Every femme you have ever known has dreamed Of blooming in your bones than making it safely home.

I want that kind of faith in my figure, To taking up space, shouting like pulling a trigger. Give me that power, that hatred, that roar. You want my body? I want yours more.

I want that kind of faith, but the Lord lay me down In a man's world, built like a girl with pains that cannot be cured. So I play God in my verses, create a world without rape whistles and purses, Men who hear my sobs, not crying wolf, but my morning wound, Men who made from my pen and not me from their rib, Won't touch her and hit so soon.

He yelled, "I'll kill you, [__]!" I seized, I fell to the floor. If this was my poem, if this was my poem, if this was my poem, But it's not me.

What I need is not really clear, If all of this fear, can I actually ever heal? I tried to disappear, I'm shattered already. He can't take what's not there, but, but I am still escaping. He has taken everything, I can't tell if this is my body still breathing Or just the scene of a crime. Here I am reading a poem of mine, written to the beat of my stutter, Stumbled on the street, yet it seems that this is still about him And not about me.

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