A Wannabe Writer's Inner Monologue

Untitled (Like Everything Is)

I find my poetry something awful,

if you can even call it that.

I read it back

over

and

over

and my stomach churns over each syllable; at the thought that I somehow found it worth writing down. My brow creases in the way I want the paper to but then

I tell myself

over

and

over

that it doesn't matter and it never matters because try all I want to convince myself that what I have on paper or screen is

absolutely.

Worthless.

At one moment it meant the world.