15/30

*On the conclusion to a discussion about Spoken Word, and how I necessarily don't fit that type of poet. My mother asked me, "well what kind of poetry do you do?" I told her well that was the point of titling my book Unclassifiable... because it isn't one type I suppose. I can't put it to a category...maybe I'm all over the place ...a wreck with words...so here's this:

I never figured out my kind of poetry
just like my words, there's nothing to define me
think of me combining all flavors of kool-aid
you'll at least have a fusion of flavors
and conglomerate of colors
Still I couldn't justly define me to my mother
I speak from my heart, and expressions range
from rage to joy,
random to focus
I know this, and can't ascertain my poetic origin
I can speak, write, sometimes recite and always ignite interest
did this
i can do that
i know without a fact I do write poetry, and i speak words,
they've been spoken but words and expression don't seem to fit me in that box
oh yes
back to the orthodox poet
uniformity
structure
balance and necessity for meaning
my soul begins intervening when it seemingly begins to fit
maybe it's too fat, in fact maybe I'm stuck and with no intention categorized myself
th3rd poetry
that's the type of poet that...
well it's when you...
have no fuckin' clue what you're going to write until you're at the 3rd line
and you don't understand the process of titling so it's one from internal rhyme
when you hurdle time and duck obstructions like instruction and informative criticism
my hedonism stems from 26 letters
yes, that's what type of poet I am
on my own avenue, painting walls with stanzas
defacing doors with doctrines on random inspirations
don't initiate conversation with someone claiming to be a th3rd poet
they'll profess their ignorance to the world
and stigmatize the creative sensation, meaning their coincidental inspiration
what?