This Poem is Unkind.

My poetry is not kind.

Great poets take us on emotional
journeys.  We bring our baggage
and we can follow along.

Not me.

I leave my reader in the dark,
on a strange street.  Barefoot
and costumed with only a glow
stick for light. A Flimsy mask
pops your tender ears every
time you try to conceal your fear.

I lure my reader into a dim
house, exuding pale blue light
with strange plants.  I tell you
that there are Smurfs living in
those tiny trees.  And you believe me.

When you find your way
back to that unfamiliar street
kind strangers seek to distract you,
hide me from your line of vision.

Entice you with treats
you know are a trick.

Until you find the car,
crawl in the back
and ask why I like to
dance on my boyfriend's lap
in the front seat so much.

And I offer you five dollars
if you promise
not to tell mom.