I’m almost of a mind to end this
Incessant, insistent obsession
To write a poem every morning.
What identity am I reinforcing?
“Poets like me do things like this.”
Or, is it a wannabe attempt to belong?
“Poets like them do things like this.”
Can I really be good like them
If all I ever write and settle for
Is just another tick on a habit tracker?
“Trust the process,” the books urge me.
“Look at your record. _Some_ are good.”
“You have to be kind to yourself,”
My therapist-visiting friends advise.
“It’s not like not-writing will help you
Write better,” common sense reminds.
So, fever-fried or medicine-muddled
I sit my brain down, foregoing rest,
and write … something.