Red Carpet Treatement

I am tired and want it to be known. I have conflicting feelings about this, have never been this exhausted before and I feel as though it is tempting to simply fall down like a house of cards on a windy day, if things continue being this way any longer. I do not want you to pity me, but I want you to acknowledge how hard I am trying, because your opinion is honestly the only thing that motivates me to keep on pushing. So to speak, external validation is not reliable, but it is the only thing I have.

Reasons I Can Never Be a Poet

1. My poems never rhyme. They don’t float like they should, you know? If words were fluid, Bukowski would be whiskey, strong in the most pleasant of ways. Neruda would be tea, not everyone’s cup, but those who do like him do so with such passion. I would be spoiled honey, nobody knew I would turn out this way, just gold enough to keep the bees around, just lingering enough to stuck your lips together.
2. That’s a lie, honey is kind of immune to spoiling. Still, if the shoe fits, right?
3. I can’t seem to find love in the way poets do. I won’t dream about you at night and if I do, I’ll just consider it one more reason to leave. See, I’m not scared of getting attached for the fear of pain. I never was. Mostly because I’ve always left before I’ve grown close enough to anyone.
4. A writer would make make number 3 sound interesting as hell, yet I’m just stating the fact I’m unable to breathe under water.
5. I don’t know how not to cut the story off abruptly. I don’t know how to make the inevitable ending feel less painful. I don’t know how to say goodbye without leaving you tasting like apologies.
6. I can’t unsee the word poet being rearranged into toe with a pee, which sounds like a genetic mutation. And god knows I would never pass on an opportunity to laugh at my own jokes.