The Poem That Wanted to be a Rock Anthem

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I wish this poem was a rock song.
Metaphors on bass
and alluring alliteration on keyboard.
Pumping out an electrifying beat.
Dressed in red lips and tattoos.

I wish this poem was a rock song.
One you could bang your head to.
Groupies hanging out backstage
with the word band,
hoping to get a glimpse
of the rock God
of verse.

I wish this poem was a rock song,
the kind you crank up
to deafening levels.
One that spoke
of anarchy and rebellion.
Wild and unholy.
Flesh stirring.
A shivering kind of thing.

The type of song, you listen to
again and again.
Years from now,
you would take it out
and jam to its nostalgic
beat.

I wish this poem was a rock song,
but sometimes you have to sing
the song you know best.
The poet decides to write
a song of herself.
Worried notes that sing
to the solitaires and forlorn.
Their melancholy movement
withholding nothing.
The tea soaked lyrics resonant
in ash and dust.
Drinking up the low pitch
hum of rain.

I wish this poem was a rock song,
but the blues
peel from me instead.
The spirit that I know
best.

-Tosha Michelle

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