Sitting in my four cornered room.
It’s not padded.
Should it be?

Hip hop you were my everything.
Have you turned a def ear.
I listened to you.
I loved you.

But whatever.

And in this moment
If you put on a Pete Rock song.
I would still let out blistered bars.
Cause I can.

Not because I’m good at it.
But I can.
Writing in rhyme was a way of life.

What is that anyway?
just scattered stories
Fragments of little pieces of shit.
Frozen thoughts.
Purple mountain majesty.

Oh for spacious skies.
I am a poet.
Fuck that.
I’m a mental patient.

Bruce is a poet. A great poet.
And Chad is a poet. God bless him.
And Bee is a poet. Pure of heart and beautiful.
And I am not a poet.

I’m a mental patient.
I’m broken like the poem I wrote so long
I’m too embarrassed about because
It revealed too much.

I am one negative fucking atom.
Poets they see beauty.
Poets see chrysanthemums and peace.

I am a mental patient.
I see four walls.
And salvation in each stroke.

Poetry, you have saved my life too many times to count.
And I treat you like a battered housewife.


Jason Wright is the editor and founder of Oddball Magazine. His column appears weekly.