If I were a poem

If I were a poem,

I’d flutter like a leaf pretending to be a butterfly.

My imagination

would have no rhyme,

defying the etiquette of life.

I’d be miserable,

like a pill waiting to be swallowed.

I’d be overjoyed

like a squirrel in a hollow.

I’d be everywhere

for everyone to ignore.

I’d be misinterpreted

by critics—more and more.

But if I were a poem,

I’ll show ‘em.

That this twisted monotony

is worth living for—

If only I were a poem.