Shhh, it’s a (written for millions to see) secret…

I write poetry. Well, kind of poetry. Little poem things. I write it, them, whatever, a lot. No, like, a lot a lot.

Most people wouldn’t guess that. Most people don’t even get to see them. Actually, no people get to see them. I delete and/or toss my poems in the trash, unless I bond with them like a stray cat. Then I hide them forever, never to be seen again until I’m having some sort of existential crisis type emotional breakdown thing.

I’m obnoxious, blunt, terrible at sharing my feelings. Everything’s a joke to me and I laugh at all of the wrong times. Yes. ALL. OF. THEM. Not exactly a stereotypical poet. I suppose if I were to psychoanalyze myself I could say that I’m writing my feelings since I’m terrible at expressing them, that they’re my emotional outlet. But I’ll just stick with “I’m batshit crazy and don’t know how to human”. Sounds pretty much one hundred percent correct.

I want to be a writer. Screw that. I am one. I write. That’s basically the only requirement to being a writer, correct? And one day I may even write poetry, and show it to people, and try to get it published. But I’ll probably spend thousands on therapy and have at least forty intense and emotional personal epiphanies before that day.

And I’ll probably use an alias.

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