This isn't poetry
What I type in the night
With the water pouring from my hair
From the midnight shower
That washed away my fears
Of the monsters and robbers.

This isn't the musings of an artistic soul.
I'm not listening to something classy or artsy,
Just some twenty-first century pop band
That pretends they're alternative.

This isn't soulful or pretty and
Staying up until 2 a.m. doesn't make me a rebel,
It just makes me pathetic,
With three library books read in one night.

This isn't anything fancy,
And I'm a bit embarrassed
That I want to be a writer,
Because this isn't –
Writing.

This isn't pretty or colorful
Or filled with vivid descriptions.

This is the late night
Angst of a teenager
Written in verse form.
Without notice given to
The rules of anything.

So –
I guess
That means
This is poetry.