I used to be a writer.
Writing was a meaningful, noble profession
for meaningful, noble people
and I wanted to distance myself from banality-
hands stained with proverbial ink, after all
are well-respected, revered, and best of all, loved
for their hard and beautiful work.
Certainly it is better to create than to simply exist.

Now I don’t know if I’m supposed to write.
I don’t know if I’m supposed to do anything, really
which isn’t even one of those pretty fears you can turn into a story.
Sometimes I want to do something completely different
and see if I feel any kind of metaphorical spark-
or feel my insides shift and rumble like the tectonic plates
they talked about in that stupid geology class.
I’m not sure if I want to be who I am just yet.