If I were a sonnet, would I be a metaphor?

If I were a sonnet…

Would my As and Bs line up?

Would I be riddled with enjambment?

Or would I be stunted and end-stopped?

Would I carve my thoughts into a lyrical ballad?

Or what if…

What if I were a haiku?

With three whys, and hows, and dos?

What if I were free verse?

Although freedom does not exist.

Not here

Not now

Not ever.

I can’t do it

My thoughts are plaguing me

They’re intoxicating

My bones ache with fatigue because everything hurts

Are you happy? She asks me

I do not know how to respond

Do I tell her I lie in bed late at night avoiding the world?

Or do I tell her –

Yes, I’m good.

I love my job.

My friends.

My life here in this city that’s carving me into the girl I never wanted to be.

My vision is blurry

My hands are itching to write

But they are constantly scrolling.

Scrolling

And scrolling

Down Twitter to catch the news,

Down Instagram to stalk and stalk some more,

Down Facebook to tag my friends in memes to remind them that I exist

Or maybe

To remind myself that I do.

 

Because sometimes,

Lately,

Most of the time,

I don’t.

I’m here floating halfway

I see myself

Sinking

Into something that may be real

Something that may not exist

I want to be a story collector

I want to find all the stories

I want to keep them for myself

But then

I also want to release them

Change them

With my ideas

And thoughts

Make something more than just a poem with the same boring iamb

 

I am not dancing the rhythm of the iamb anymore.

Maybe I’m more of a trochaic meter,

Maybe not.

What if I were a sonnet?

Would I rhyme?

Would be last two couplets have a  happy ending?

Maybe I’m wrapped into a metaphor

Believing and breaking with every syllable

Breathing and bouncing with each letter – oh is it logophilia?

What if I were a sonnet?