Today I admitted I was a poet and then cried out APRIL FOOLS!
The last time I got this close to a literary faucet, I nearly drowned.
I spill out of myself without a container. APRIL FOOLS!
I spill out of myself despite the container.
I think this is part of the problem.
When spring comes, everyone is convinced to rebuild.
APRIL FOOLS! Everyone is forced to rebuild.
My experience of pain, after all, has been mostly scaffolding.
As writers, we are given tools to make the necessary repairs.
Jackhammer her plot-holes. Correct the ass-phalt.
It’s sometimes difficult to discern the writers from their tools.
APRIL FOOLS! The structure is pre-constructed for your poetic convenience.
APRIL FOOLS! You cannot separate oneself from a Tool.
I WISH THIS WASN’T A JOKE.