I lay here and
Think of you
And think of me
And how I don’t know what will be
I overthink everything.
I overthought this starting poem, writing and re-writing it time and again in my mind, smudging the subdurma and grey matter with graphite smears and flecks of rubber eraser.
I’m not a poet
I’m not artistic or good enough
I’m not comfortable with vulnerability enough to let people see me as
I don’t know if I trust myself enough to not betray everything
I’ve ever believed in with my musings and thoughts from
Somewhere. That thought was cut and backspaced prematurely because I’m obsessed with perfection and pleasing everyone but pleasing me isnt okay because
I’m not okay to let myself be okay.
I’m done. I have to let me be me, and let go of the
I I never was, but was presenting alone
My mother wouldn’t like this poem. She’d say it’s choppy and why doesnt rhyme and what are all the spaces for and I don’t like poetry or get it and I think it’s just a bunch of people pretending to be impressed by something they don’t understand
This isn’t for you, mom.
I love you, but it’s not for you.
Can a question be a phrase or can a moment be a statement,
A touch and brush of fingers a reach and a prayer?
Or is this my mind making me believe what I want to be true
An overactive imagination planting seeds of sugar tablets that will grow into nothing
— The End —