Your poetry is ****
I say this to myself
Even when it’s for others
I say this to myself when I run out
Of ideas or serotonin
Before I run outside.
I know that’s important.
Serotonin that is,  not running outside ,
Because people smarter than me
Said so

I sat cross legged for some time
‘Time’ That I was told didn’t exist
And eventually I realised
I am not the thoughts in my mind
Because someone smarter than me said so
Yet somehow when I write
Those thoughts on a page
I am those thoughts
And I don’t have time to tell myself
That all poetry is ****.