Too much poetry?

I cannot pick a poem book.
No sooner do I open it
Than words start slipping down the page.
Forget attention, they can’t hold
My patience when I lick-stick it.
The pages have grown lazy now.

Some writers sprinkle poetry
In novels that go nowhere good
But somehow make the journey fun.
And midway, when you realize
There’s half a book no more ignored,
You know this writer earned themselves
Another little bathroom break.

But now I’m writing poem books
Where words are slipping down the page
Because I cannot bring myself
To stitch some chapters, leaf by leaf
Into an Indian feasting plate
And sprinkling dew drops, freshen it
For serving out a buffet spread.