An Attempt at Poetry By Someone Who Thinks It’s Bougie

I have dreams

Big ones

Small ones

Wet ones

I like to think that I’ll one day make something of myself

Be well known

Have a Wikipedia page

It is the millennial dream after all

But I can’t tell

If who I am and who I want to be

Exist in the same universe

I can’t tell if my life is backed by talent or delusion

And it scares me

Because I fear If you don’t know your true talents

That you don’t know yourself

BTW

I hate writing poetry

I think it’s bougie

And self-indulgent

Which is strange because I’m self-indulgent

I guess I just have an issue

With making things appear more beautiful than they actually are

I’m uncomfortable at the thought of calling a forest Emerald

When you could just say fucking green.

I do like that it has no rules

If I wanted

I could just write a list of fruits

And someone could find meaning in it

I guess you can find meaning in anything

If you try hard enough

But that requires effort

Which is the millennial nightmare

Thinking about the future terrifies me

It causes my throat to close up

Like anaphylactic shock
Yes

I had to google it

If only life had an EpiPen®

To make things bearable

But that would be too easy

And God’s a bitch.

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