I want to be a bad poet.
I want good poets to shake their heads indulgently at the rawness,
the lack of craft,
the lack of depth
in my work.
I want to be a drama queen with words and images;
when I read a poem a week later.
I want to publish things impulsively
I want to sit in cafes feeling sensual with artsy paper
getting ink on my fingers
while I scrawl the “perfect” phrase
I want that phrase to be so, so imperfect.
What glorious liberation, to be a bad poet!
What freedom to shout, what license to play!
What security to know I am bad,
and never waste
one more moment
fearing that I might be.