I haven't written in a while.
I mean, yes; scraps of poetry,
not formerly: "dear diary"
not deeply introspectively
not all my insecurities and all my worries and concerns
and dreams, not future hopes and fears and longings
not the things I hope to be
avoid to be
not
secret thoughts inside of me not flaws and glories
of the day not things that took my breath away not
academic ponderings or aimless mindless wanderings
no verbal chess, poetic press,
no letters to my old address no emails nothing
about *** or anything of interest
not anything political or sentimental cynical not
anything of any worth not anything that you deserve
no
all I've written
is more lies
as proof of my self-censorship
for I read my words with your eyes,
and type them with your fingertips, and
I am too caught up in you, I
cannot write me
any more
I cannot write
the ugly truth
your beauty's what I'm writing for
now.