poet – Page 5 – Kevin Trent Boswell

a first world problem

being a poet and a songwriter
everyone assumes the things you write
are about them

a symptom of narcissistic culture,
exacerbated by social media

people love to be talked about
(favorably, anyway)

some people don’t even care if it’s favorable,
as long as someone is talking about them

write an angry piece about anyone,
and suddenly, ten friends are worried
it’s about them

twenty acquaintances
are boiling in their juices

say something vague about someone
who did you a favor and meant a lot to you,
people line up to take credit

write about a bad breakup,
half a dozen old girlfriends
are seeing red, blowing fuses,
about things that happened
five, ten, fifteen, twenty years ago

even though, in reality,
it’s not about them at all

write anything romantic,
and a dozen girls are swooning,
each one quite positive
it’s about them

or they’re enraged because
they believe it’s about someone else

but that one piece,
the really sexy, romantic one,
the one that made you flustered,
flush, lightheaded with excitement

that one was
definitely
about you,

yes, you,
the one
reading this
right now

I swear

reengineered

reinvent the round, roly-thing
obfuscate, make useful stuff obsolete
situations we’d sorted out,
happily, a long time ago

some growing pains, yes, a sting
lots of sunk-cost fallacies to eat
and tales of yesterday to talk about
but no real satisfaction to show

bonkers

the world has gone and goes
farther into madness each day

hands gripping the panicked ledge
clock prying weak fingers away

losing all safety and sanity,
stripped of it daily and nightly

if you can find yourself an anchor,
hold on to it fiercely and tightly

a proper beau

a dapper gentleman in a suit
a prowler lurking near
a kind fellow holding flowers
a sly devil in a trench coat

a maiden has no way of knowing

desiring yet fearing pursuit,
certain words she yearns to hear
to fall into charming powers
a request, a command, a careful note

a glowing smile is telling, showing

a callous beast who cheats and lies
or a happy tear brought by a lover
a spineless, cowering, simpering wimp
or a loyal man who inspires devotion

a rock, a champion to win her heart

someone bold, a little older, wise
a warrior to shield her and cover
caresses that make her weak and limp
to make forever more than a notion

if hurdles may be overcome at the start

Glow-Up

I never felt the need
To pretend
That everything was okay

It’s normal to hurt and bleed
When things end
And people go away

I never felt the need to be cruel
To act like it didn’t matter to me
As if I was unfazed, fine, even great

It takes a special kind of fool
To show off, hoping they’ll see,
And giving in to a petulant hate

Back in the Day

Back in the old days,
If a lady thought she fancied you,
She’d drop her handkerchief;
You were looking, and she knew

This signaled to a gentleman
“Sir, do come and flirt with me”
In returning it, his charm
(Or lack thereof) she could see

Supposedly, now a quick smile
Does what the hanky used to
But modern men know better,
There is no acceptable thing to do

One woman says, “Here is good,
“But never, ever, over there!”
But the next one will say the opposite;
So, men guess in despair

If you approach because she smiled,
She’ll say, “I was just being polite”
But suddenly, she’s uncomfortable,
And she’ll say, “That’s not right!”

If you cannot read her mind,
Then your head is made of rock
And unless you’re rich and famous,
You’ll be slandered on TikTok

But if you don’t take the risk,
Then she’ll feel like you rejected her
She’ll tell her friends you’re a coward
When you thought you respected her

A woman thinks she’s flirting
If she blushes, smiles, and fidgets
But if you want him to make a move,
Drop a hanky or your digits