I scrawl little poems on notepad sheets and
pretend this is what real poets do.
I write notes to myself about mental health
that I don’t even need, I invalidate myself sometimes
just for the perks of the narrative.
Is this what real poets do?
I have been hiding my poetry behind my back,
I’ve been calling it rambles while you,
you call it poetry. You call it beautiful.
I call it a mess.
Is it creative to not market yourself? Or is it just stupidity?
Is it healthy to write or am I just
stuffing words into my throat and telling myself it’s food?
When was the last time I ate well?
My stomach hurts.
Note to self: this is poetry.
Note to self: you eat less.
Note to self: you’re a poet.
All of these statements make me sound
like the manic pixie dream girl image
I’ve been cultivating.
None of them are true.
This is not poetry, this is a shard of glass
aimed at your heart. This is a confession
I can’t make face to face.
I’m sorry for sending you poems in bad handwriting.
I’m sorry for hurting more than I should have.
Do real poets apologise?
Or do they just write it down as a reminder
of something they’ll always forget to do?
I’ve been scrawling words on notepad sheets
and calling it poetry. How much
time is left before someone calls me out on it?
Baby, I’ve never actually been inspired in class.
I just thought that’s what I’m supposed to do.
Like this, this is essentially poetry isn’t it?
An apology to an elusive second person,
coupled with self criticism, this
must be poetry. This has to be what real poets do.
I’ve been writing notes to my self for
far too long about things I don’t need to know.
I’ve forgotten how to separate myself from my fiction-
Note to self: you are real.
Note to self: you might not be a poet, but you still matter
Note to self: get over yourself.