ODE TO A BOY POET

 ODE TO A BOY POET 

I am the poet of dusty Black drapes, of ravens, crows and goblins, of red tears; I am the poet that weeps acid, starves himself to have something to write about, the poet of antidepressants I can’t pronounce, of tired gothic tropes; I am the poet of breakups and megalomania, the poet of black sabbaths and pagan altars; I am the poet of unearned hubris, the anarchist poet, tethering poems together with ribbons of fatalism; I am the poet who conjures stories from the void in my belly, pulls gore from the shit in my toilet, the poet that desires a funeral pyre; I am the poet that knows God and kissed Her face, the poet-heretic dancing in hell’s icy flames waiting for words to free me; the parasite-poet, consumer of negativity, sustained by nothing; the poet of magic tubs, distorted cartoon references, I am the poet that talks with a slur, the poet with a slight speech implement, the dyslexic-poet; the Black poet reconstructing Blackness; I am the poet from hood, of hand-me-down clothes, the poet of buss downs, caps, tweekin’, the poet that used to bop, the poet of snowballs, crates that stand in as basketball rims, of football in the middle of the street; I am the poet that stole from the Arabs and Koreans because they fucked with me, the poet that pissed on store doors when I felt disrespected, the poet that hates 12; I am the poet of matriarchs living in rowhouses, the welfare king of the nigga fairies, I am the poet of the nigga Camelot, of soulful Ooo; I am the poet of nappy locs, the poet with hair like a carpet, the poet of free roots; I am the poet of tattered comic books and stolen Manga; the poet that is still learning to construct his poem, a poem that will mourn the abandon house next door, the abandoned lot at the corner, the abandoned church around the block; I am the poet and the poem.