I'm sitting in the square

it's five, and the sun is burning

but only my back, because that's all I'm giving it

I bought some gum but didn't open it

I don't know why I'm even here

poetry should rhyme, shouldn't it?

and it should be deep

shouldn't talk about gum

even if it has a funky flavour

apple & pomegranate, and it's cubic

I don't know why you'd make gum cubic

I bought a pen to write with, and I don't like it

it's not my pen, it feels weird

but the letters spill out of it just like from any other pen

everything I write, it's like I'm talking to you

which I am, because I can't not talk to you

I just told you I'm kind of writing

word-vomiting on paper, I'm not sure it qualifies

if it doesn't, what does? what matters?

everything matters, I matter, you matter

it matters

I'm sitting here thinking all of this and no one knows

all they see is a girl hunched over a notebook

in my ear, Good Charlotte sings about the chronicles of life and death

I suppose this is it

what counts as chronicles? who's to say

I don't know anything, the couple over there on the steps could be living the most important moment of their lives

Luke Conard says log out of Gmail chat

that's not where it's at today

is that ever where it's at? where is it at?

right now it's at the outskirts of the square in the sunniest city in Finland

which is must be, since it's five-thirty pm and my back is burning

I don't mind it, though

there are clouds in the distance, and I don't want to know whether they're man enough to live up to their image

I want to write a haiku, but I can't remember the syllable counts

and haikus about clouds are clich├ęd anyway

not that pretending to be a poet in a public place is any better

at least I acknowledge it

maybe I'll get there one day

for now I'll sit and word-vomit

and pretend I'm not begging for attention

because I'm not

am I?

I think I know what the problem is

I don't feel entitled to write something and just label it poetry

I hardly feel allowed to call myself a writer

- let alone a poet

everyone starts somewhere, but is poet a title you give yourself or one you are given?

I hear about great poets writing for months

working for years on a single line

I spew something out in an hour and expect it to count

no wonder I feel like a child playing with her mother's make up

which is bogus, because I never did that

not after Lily's mother's heels

maybe it's a feeling everyone goes through, and I'm just late

because up until recently I wasn't sure I had normal-people-feelings

now I'm getting it all at once, the continuous ones and the momentous ones

am I actually explaining this to you, or to the paper, or to myself?

does it matter?

no.

mm.