I think too much.
I was thinking
Wondering where I weas going with this whole
"Poetry" shindig.
I was thinking
Maybe when I'm eighty
When I'm dead
When I die
Someone will look through my computer
And see my blog.
Maybe they'll read my poems
Declare my a virtuoso
Claim that I should've been revered in my time
And declare it a shame that I have passed.
They will show them to a publisher
And distribute them worldwide.
I will become a literary Picasso
And live through it.
Those who knew me will mourn with ferocity
Ashamed that they never knew.
I will be loved for an eternity.

In all likelihood, that will never happen.
It is near impossible.
Will I even keep this up that long?
But it's nice to hope.

But I can tell that I'm thinking too much.
I was taught
That poetry should come from the heart
Unfiltered
No thinking.
Just your soul on paper
With a rhythmic beat, if possible.
So not only will I never be even considered
As a poetic woman.
But I am doing this all wrong