You want some robot “poetry voice” to come out of me

Knowing about things like stanzas and haiku

How can she, like, not know haiku and call herself a poet?!

But I can only write using This voice

And that fake shit don’t fly here

Maybe it’s Real to you –

“shimmering lakes” and clichéd-a-million-ways-to-say autumn leaves –

and that’s ok

But Real to me is just…

being free enough to be me

To let out my truth

Imperfectly

This is my poetry.

This is my art.

This is my voice.

You can reject it for its lack of “poetry-ness”

Or say anything you wish, really

I’ll just float along with the smile I feel forming on the inside

Because, well…

I don’t write for you.