Reflecting on the empty poetry book And the empty poems Hugging its solitude; The solid figure rectangle Created to carry exaggerated sensations Within its roomy, suitcase-like compartments— It is, sort of, like an empty womb
CREATE GODDAMNIT
Can’t sleep or eat until I fill its pages
Can’t laugh until I muster “something”.
Not until I put all this life and menstruation
virginity, stressed father
lunatic mother,
detached sister,
faded sweatshirt,
and the anti-climactic overture
to receiving a doctorate down on paper
and impress the pants off everyone I know,
I will not rest.
I must create and revise and edit and obsess.
List of things that will happen if I don’t:
Rejection from jobs
Disinterest from companies
Overdramatized plunge into the realm of self-abasement, wherein I gratuitously refer to my life as a “mire of shit”
List of things that will happen if I do:
Boyfriend’s praise
Parents’ glorification
False sense of self-importance
So you see, it must happen because everyone is expecting it.
Does the Poet Laureate feel this way, or does he write because he wants to? Does he even enjoy it anymore?
Can a woman be Poet Laureate?
Maybe I should try.
That is all I need, a professor told me:
A project.
My new project: To be the best poet in America.
Finally
Something to tone down my expectations.