Closet Poet

She wants to be a writer.

She wants to touch the souls of millions.

She wants to write verses and stanzas

that describe the world in impressively

complex metaphors that require a master's degree

to fully understand and analyze

but the problem is her words lack depth

the issue lies in the fact that,

while she wants to be the beatnik standing on

the street corner offering poetry to the world

drinking coffee and little-known kinds of tea from

a small local shop because she's sticking it to

the Man by refusing to buy into National enterprises,

wearing horn-rimmed glasses, and running her hands

subconsciously through her artistically cut and dyed hair,

she doesn't actually like coffee and she gets bored

standing around for no reason and her mom won't

let her get glasses that aren't on sale and won't let her

dye her hair because it is too expensive to keep up.

She knows that her poems will never be published in

literary magazines because they lack depth due to her

problem-free, upper-middle-class upbringing in the

suburbs. She writes in a moleskin notebook to try and

seem more intellectual and sometimes she pretends that

her parents died in a tragic eight car pile up on the side

of the highway but they're always ok when they call at

night to check if she needs money in her bank account.

She doesn't have anything meaningful to write about,

so she writes about her meaningless life, but she doesn't

want to sound self-centred so she writes in third person.

The un-read poems pile up on her desktop and she knows

she will always be a closet poet.