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
Or existentially-emasculated,
I sit my brain down, foregoing rest,
and write … something.