Tomorrow, I have to turn in a recently written poem
and I am stressing out, freaking out, pulling out
my hair as it falls in tufts around
unfamiliar pages filled with words that
sound somewhat like me,
but a different Me.
A Me who knew, recognized, breathed
those lines and smiled in each of their
conclusions.
This Me sees: the threat of words that
just. don't. fit.
beside one another,
as if stuffed in a jar,
through the neck of a bottle,
down the throat of a child.
----
Someone help me choose a poem to hand over to a strange professor, to slip beneath the eyes of
nine other classmates, as I--vulnerable, insecure, unsure,
inadequate--
watch them stare, frown, muse,
and pull out:
Nothing
from the Nothingness
of my poetry.
----
Your words can only mean nothing if they are nothing.
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