Goddammit I hate writing poetry
And I bet that it also hates me
But there is no escape
Put the pen to the paper
Write a word, then a thought, then we’ll see

Goddammit I hate writing poetry
And I’ve been doing it longer than things that I actually enjoy
Could anything be more self-indulgent
Read about me writing about me and how I
Think such delicate thoughts and if I break
The line in the middle of my sentence
It starts to look
Like a poem

But it’s not — it’s essentially bile
Just wringing a few wretched thoughts
Out of my tangled brain like
A mop — or another lazy simile

And god isn’t that feeling universal
Anxious again before the
Blank page
You carry a gut-level compulsion to birth something into the world that’s worth the pain and
That you’ve felt since you were almost as young as you can remember and
Grew up alongside you but remained alien and
Addicted you to praise and
Refuses to die
Even now as you expose it in a poem
Or later to your patient therapist
Who has been encouraging
You to be more honest
To take more risks
And if possible
To write a poem