Writing is all I do.
It is who I am, the dialogue
Spinning through my mind
Every moment of every day.
It is all I see.
My life in words.
But I have to write about things.
Stories, always stories.
That’s what you’re supposed to write
That’s what people read.
But why?
So much noise in a story.
The colors and the worlds
And the loud, loud people
That aren’t people, they’re just a waste
Of ink and paper and hope and love
And the stupid, stupid readers fall for it
And believe it’s somehow true
And it’s just so much noise.
My poems are my soul
What I really think
Said plainly,
No mouthpieces
No wasted love on those stupid things
The imposter people.
This is me.
Black and white.
Insecure.
Unsure and imperfect
But honest, always true.
Look.
Read.
Know, this is what I do, what I am
Born to write
And do it badly
Knowing no one cares.