Through poems
I seem to come off as
wishing
To sound original,
Like
Beethoven
rapping into the sunlight
or of him
composing a hate song
to Eve,
Or just to anyone in general.
(Beethoven would
Sound strange
Trying to channel
Pure anger,
since he isn't copper.
His tunes are
Silver and platinum,
Gold sometimes,
But not copper!)
I can switch styles, too.
I am at times vague,
Distracted,
Glossy like a bubble.
Transparent but
Distorted.
Not malleable like metal.
I want to be difficult, though.
I want students to be
Gazing through my work,
Wondering if I meant
All those double, triple meanings
That teachers insist
Writers infuse writing with.
(We do, sometimes.
I always do, at least.
Double-meaning tea.
I hope
they believe me,
It makes me sound more
intelligent.)
But if they’re to
Get
Anything from my writing
It’s that in this world
There are few certain things.
And I wish to tell them what they are,
But I’m sure I’m not wise enough
To condense the universe
Into a bubble for them,
Or to mold it into wires
That connect
Them
to me.

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