I'll pretend

that everything is alright

that I'm not jealous

that I'm not mean

that I'm not kind

 Perhaps I'm lying.

 

I want to think of things like this

Like things

Like things

Like things  that don't bother me.

I'm not dependent.

I don't need to be accepted.

I don't feel isolated.

I don't have self esteem,

low enough to graze the ocean floor.

 Am I lying yet?

 

Poet or not,

I want to write something real.

Something funny.

Something cool.

Something that grasps around the heart,

and tugs.

 Something long.

 

I want to write a novel.

Is what I tell myself.

I want to , I want to, I want to.

But time , and time , and time

again

and again

and again

 

I say,

"There's something wrong."

"It's not good."

"It has to be better."

"I'm going to start something new."

"All I have to do is concentrate."

"I won't procrastinate. I won't edit yet."

I won't.

I won't.

I won't.

 

But suddenly,

the words seem horrible.

The pain of scraping piles up.

The words seem like their mocking me.

I spelled them wrong .

I spelled....

 

Am I lying yet?

No, no , no.

Not yet.

I don't want to.

Not yet.

It'll come out one day.

I'll finish a novel one day.

I promise.

Am I lying now?

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