Without question, you are the worst thing that ever happened to my poetry. And I’m serious, I’ve herd about writer’s block but this- is ridiculous. My poetic fluidity has dried up faster than a woman hitting menopause to the point where this dry spells got me praying for some inspirational discharge to leak from the folds of grey matter in my brain and…shit!

See what I mean? I’ve been thinking for far too long with my heart instead of my head, and I think people may be starting to notice and I’ve got a reputation to uphold man! And no it’s not my time of the month, so don’t ask. It’s my time of the day, or what used to be, hen I could sit down and write a really gritty angry poem, one that just seethed with angst- but now I can’t! Because I’m just too damn happy! Or should I say sappy?
Because I used to watch Face the Nation for international news, then West Wing for international hope, turn out great political satire ripe with biting wit and sarcasm… but I can’t do it any more!

You know why? Because I don’t watch those shows any more, because you’ve got me watching the stars- and I don’t mean Brad Angelina, no- I mean those stars. You’ve got me watching them, thinking about whether you’re watching the same ones as me and- maybe that would make a good poem? And, and, and… this is crap!

Like a slap across the face of my muse who’s had to withstand so much abuse she’s threatened to leave my side, leave my mind! I try to tell her: please, it’s just not a good time, but she leaves me with my please and really bad rhymes and- I can’t do this!

I refuse to let my words sink to such levels of atrocity, refuse to submit to “Roses are red, violets are blue, my poetry sucks and it’s all thanks to you!” But you turn my brain to mush and it’s so hard not to let my thoughts run off in moments of ridiculous romanticism and irrelevant metaphors like- dipping my tongue and hands into the paint can of my mind, I splatter gooey gobs of thought onto the wall, then watching as the rest of the world tries to make sense of my lovesick babble, they- come with black sharpies and try to connect the dots, forming man-made constellations with y nonsensical thoughts…

And this has to stop! Because writing in abstract metaphors so that you think I have a more poetic view on the world than you is against my poetic ethics. Which, rhymes with ethnics, which, incidentally is one more poem topic you have rendered useless. Because I’m a hoppa, means I’m a mixed blood, which means I never fit inside the check-mark box, always fall between the cracks, and always write about finding my culture, where I belong.

But those poems have fallen to the wayside as I find I belong up against your chest, your arms around my back, my head under you chin ,eyes closed. I sit down to write a poem, and the only thing in my head is you- and I don’t understand why you’re the worst thing that every happened to my poetry, if you’re the best that ever happened to me.