more.
or, any really.
but i’ve got 12 drafts here and
9 drafts on wordpress and
21 poem and novel beginnings on google drive and
it still feels like pulling teeth when i try to
drag the words from my brain through my fingertips to
maybe see something of value on my screen.
i already hate this pseudo-poem.
i hate everything i’ve attempted to write in the past 5 years.
but on the flip side —
i hate most things i’ve read in the past 5 years.
i read glorified bullshit and think how i used to write
things that were
better
than glorified bullshit
whenever i wanted.
and now the only reason i’m even typing this out
is so i won’t have gone 3 months without a post.
but who even cares about these posts?
i call myself a writer,
fully acknowledging my hypocrisy.
can you even fall back on imposter syndrome
when you haven’t written anything
w o r t h w h i l e
in f i v e years?
if it really is as simple as
sitting,
looking,
typing,
if all you have to do to write
is write,
am i just out of practice?
or was i never a writer in the first place?
