Shawshank but I welcomed it
after I realized how much time had passed.
after such a "tough"day,
filled with suburban chaos
and Last Minute Larry's,
poetry was far from my peripheral.
but here I am,
writing this poem
that you are reading.
I want you to really think about that.
I, a real man, is using his real (limited) time.
to write this real poem.
while you, a real person (people) reads it.
This is no Robert Frost,
but Hell hath no fury
like simple reality.
but what makes a poem really real?
maybe when it is self aware,
or published in a seamless Poetry zine,
on Friday night in the middle of forever.
This is no Mary Oliver,
but Heaven hath no fury
like simple reality.