I don’t want to be another
poet, with long hair, wearing
a baggy sweater, telling the world
old truths with words so used
they can’t be in black print anymore,
just a tint of gray, with a shaded background
(like the photograph I destroyed,
not by a touch, but only with a gaze) .
so, I’m not a poet, using an old typewriter
with the letter “y” jamming constantly,
staying up all night talking about
metaphysics, politics, and the color of ink.
poets. I’m leaving the party before
I even arrive.

Ivona Sophia

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/decision-after-breakfast/