by Mickie Lynn
“…but don’t fall prey to what I call the Pinocchio Syndrome: Publish me! I’m only a wooden writer! Make me a real writer!
The work is more important.
Let this mantra save you, when you start collecting rejections.”
I’m a little wooden poet
with tiny wooden hands
grasping a teeny wooden pencil.
I have wooden feet holding up wooden legs
and wooden pegs at wooden hinges.
I have the stained wood edge of femininity:
curves carved from my wooden body.
My wooden back is straight and
supporting a wooden head
with hair falling like toothpicks.
My wooden smile
hints at the hollowness
that resides in my trunk.
You see, I want to be
a poet made of warm flesh
pumping hot blood through pulsing veins
of organic realness.
Real poets are published.
A stamp of approval that shouts,
“This is a real poet! See how her
heart sings across the paper!
See how his
cock swings with confidence!
In the eyes of the editing fairies,
I want to be real:
breathe life into me.