Masterclass

It’s been a few weeks, but I’m back with a pencil
metaphorically of course, I use keyboards as stencils
to outline the letters of the words of each masterpiece
you can call it a masterclass, I’ve mastered the class I teach.
Poetry 101, how to rhyme and have fun,
how to write out how you feel while shining bright like the sun,
how to enter into minds of a reader and penetrate
both a message and a rhythm all in one being ever great.
Never late, I arrive precisely when I mean to
like wizards in a blizzard using magic to gleam through
I’ve seen too many winters, some think I’ve seen too few,
but I know literarily I’ll literally beat you
I’ll seat you in the back of my poetic auditorium
you’ll get the point when I point to the points as I keep scoring them,
there’s more of them, more and more and more of them, pouring in,
I get so hot I turn to ashes, then I rise up and come soaring in.
Now you’ve seen it, he’s a phoenix, can’t defeat this, fire heats this,
self-aware enough to both accept and overcome each weakness.
Flawed imperfect, hardly worth it, self-esteem I might desert it,
I’ve proudly lost my mind and over time become a devout absurdist,
loudest wordsmith, flat-footed walking the line within my mind
between more clout or purpose.
And I shout out like a scream therapy healer, “Ouch it hurts, Miss.”
She said, “That means it’s working,” like a gasp derived from a crowded circus.
I swing from the ceiling, trapeze, suicidal thoughts can’t catch me,
since I never quite land with that squeeze, cutting off the air, more breath please.
Inhale, exhale, wake up. Inhale, exhale, it’s done.
Inhale, exhale, come on. Inhale, exhale, enough!
Living just to live I am alive like the trees are,
feeling pretty dumb I want to call myself re-
rethink where you’re going man, reverse where you went
remove some vocabulary, respond and repent.
Reframe the negativity and wasted time you’ve spent,
retreat to the forest, don’t retort since you are bent.
Sinning and repenting for the sake of a rhyme,
is it the cutting edge of cleverness or simply a crime?
The poems that I write are aging nicely like wine,
as my lines turn green and wrap up trees just call them divine.
Reread that line and you’ll say, “Oh I get it!” in time,
a secret code is what I got, so you can call me sublime.
Got is the past tense of get, do not think that I forget,
I mean forgot, forget? Why not, good grammar’s what you’ll get
if you sign up today for my masterclass,
a review I got described it as, “Disaster Class”.
Take a seat, sit up front, hang with me, pull a stunt.
Do anything you want since that’s the freedom found in poetry,
to take my course or read my words is how you’ll get to knowing me.

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