"writer"

I am a fucking writer

-I proclaim to myself

(as if to manifest talent or

creativity)

while sitting and staring, at a blindingly white page

eyeballing back at me, in disgust.

How am I to be prolific or renowned

when even my own words deceive me?

But, i am a fucking writer-

who sits into the midnight hour with a deadline

looming and lingering like a noose,

and i teeter on the edge of the gallows,

balancing my toes just beneath the edge.

My professor must love me

(and my ability to avoid all responsibility) until i race

my hands and brain into a typing frenzy

providing work that is

just enough;

enough to make a proclamation

and to revel in the glory of publication but

never enough to be another di Prima

nor Mr. Whitman's muse.

Enough to win a contest-entered by just one.

First place isn't as prestigious when there's no one!

Neither is rewriting the same shitty feelings of abandonment,

line after line after line.

He fucking lied, you tried; he left, you cried.

blah blah blah -the end.

Get over it -and you- and them.

Be something, do something! Or be monotonous and inadequate

(as you've always been).

Be notorious, or glorious -or obnoxious-

but don't call yourself a fucking writer, if you can't even pick up a goddamn pen.