I type all my poetry
In a Word document
Called “Legends”
Because everything worth remembering
Is the stories
Happening
Over and over again.
Repetition until we’re dead.
Same **** different day.
Looking at it this way
And then that one.

I write so I can give someone
somewhere
Goosebumps.
I want to touch stranger’s lives
In remarkable ways
I want to share my pain
My love
My story
With all of you.
My art
is showing the sanctity of words
and leaving a legacy.

I will be dead
But someone will inherit my little black book
Filled not with men’s phone numbers
but the thing
That allows tourists to find their way
That allows kids to express themselves in healthy ways
When what they’re feeling just might **** them
That allows you and me to talk
When we’re thousands of miles apart.
My art
Is words.
And I’ll tell the same ******* story
But I’ll do it in new ways
That’ll make you go “ooo. She’s good.”
Because I am.

No one fawns over us.
We’re not the musicians with admirers
Or the actors who enjoy owning islands.
We’re not covers of magazines.
No one even knows what we look like.

But if I’ve put Goosebumps on your arm
I’ve done the same thing as the greats.
And in doing so,
I’ve become one.