i know the morning
is here for me
to delve into my
psychology
and think through things
as they may or may not be

but right now it feels
more like a chore
more like a bore
score none and no more
the act of writing
of poetizing
less than appetizing
and i can’t help but feel
like a
fraud

~~~

one more poem
one more verse
simply to make me feel
like i didn’t just waste
an entire block of my morn
writing stupid rhyming poetry
for nothing
for naught
for no one but me

(that’s the only person
actually
for whom this
poetry)

~~~

and writing
as me
as my own self
is so odd
because i’ve spent so much of my life
not knowing
(or straight up hiding)
who i truly was
that i’m uncertain
i’d even know
for sure
now