Did you read my poem?
“Yes” he says

Silence

“I think
you are trying
too hard”

Fuck you
I think it’s concise
I don’t play with myself here
Or call attention to anything
But I remember
He is the only one of my friends
Whos criticism I respect

So I look again
‘My heart is a stone feather’
It embarrasses me like a yearbook photo
And looks twice as awkward on the page
I might as well have said ‘My heart is a raspberry snowflake’
Reread Ginsbergs’ Sunflower Sutra and quit
Because if there is such a thing as trying too hard
My poem is it

Thanks to Bukowski
I can still see his tombstone
‘Don’t try’ it says
Because if you have to try
It isn’t there
Wait he said
If it doesn’t come
Wait longer

So I am waiting
Probably pissing people off in the process
Especially by writing it down
Still I’d rather be doing this
Than digging ditches
Or sitting in teacher parent conferences
Telling serious faced mothers and fathers
That they are right
Their child is a unique raspberry snowflake
Even though I know
Their kid is just a frozen drop of rain
And will one day thaw
Like everyone else

The thought of that existence
Is a million times more crushing
Than hearing honest advice
Especially when that is what I wanted
Even though it didn’t say
Go get published