I have to treat this as a personal diary.
I suppose it is really.
I’m trying to write poetry.

Most of what I put down feels artificial.
Like a show that echoes.
See that’s what I mean.

That line.
Like a show that echoes.
I knew exactly what I was doing there.

Every cliche that comes out of me I’ve already seen.

I know how to solve this problem.
I have to go out and live.

I have to go and fall in love again.
I don’t want to.

I would rather write poorly.
and have two stupid tattoos.
that say much with few words.

that’s what it means. the left one. say much with few words. I’ve been treating this as a poem even still. even up until now. but this isn’t a poem. these are just a few words. and I’m trying not to be artistic, or follow any rules. this is not a poem or a book.

this is acceptance. I can’t find the courage to write in spite of me.