People ask how I write poetry so well
They’ll never know the answer
They’ll never know why I write
They’ll never know my arms are blank pages that I fill with stanza after stanza, the pen has no ink as my arms are the ink
The ink flows out of me and onto the page filling footnotes and headlines, titles and spaces
I look every day for a reason to not end the poem
But truly no one asked me how I write so well, because truth is they’ve never seen a single line
No one has and no one will
May 16
May 16, 2026 at 6:50 PM UTC
People ask how I write poetry so well
They’ll never know the answer
They’ll never know why I write
They’ll never know my arms are blank pages that I fill with stanza after stanza, the pen has no ink as my arms are the ink
The ink flows out of me and onto the page filling footnotes and headlines, titles and spaces
I look every day for a reason to not end the poem
But truly no one asked me how I write so well, because truth is they’ve never seen a single line
No one has and no one will
I was not in a good state of mind when I wrote this
Srry for any misunderstandings or poor grammar