hi poetry, it’s me. i know i’ve been neglecting you, but i’m sorry. it’s not you, it’s me. i’ve been working on other things behind your back. the thing is i was never that into you, and as terrible as it sounds prose was always my one true love. i don’t know what to say, you were my literary sloppy seconds, i was only with you when i was in the mood. i’m not saying what we have is meaningless, but i feel it’s always destined to take a side-seat to other things. i know there are others out there for you though, because there are plenty of very pseudo-philosophical fish in the proverbial sea. i mean you’ve had your fun. you had frost, dickinson, silverstine, and i still respect your judgement enough not to question you about poe. what we have, poetry, is something of a relationship none of them would really get. i think there’s more to the sky than just you, more to trees than loosely-fit meanings and half-rhymes. More than going for passive-aggressive one-upsmanship in cafes and meticulously designed stale shock value of hipsters. i look outside and see things that could happen there, and we can never see eye to i in those situations. i think, poetry, you bring out the worst in me (no matter what i do with you it always sounds angsty and frankly i can’t take it anymore). i’m tired of sounding like a middle-schooler who considers themself wise or worldly, i’d rather just be me. i’m not saying we should break things off, but couldn’t we just be friends or something?
an apologetic writer.