“You are a poet,”
She told me,
And maybe words can make it so.
My pen blazes its trail
I’d like to be a poet
But I am an adolescent:
Ungainly, gawky, disjointed
But still covered in those awful pimples
And sweating through my makeup.
I feel a longing
Baffling in a way that makes perfect sense.
An “if only” added to a “but actually”
Sandwiched between two slices of denial
With a side of greasy fries.
I pause to self-edit
But make myself press on.
Maybe if I don’t acknowledge the failures,
Written March 13, 2014