I'm A Writer Who Cannot Write

I am a poet who writes for myself

I never share it

I’m ashamed

My words spill out on their own

They’re like a black, sugary liquid pouring from my ears

And I wish I could say it’s just Diet Pepsi

I wish millions would buy it

Drink it

Love it

Rave about it

But I’m just a so-called poet who writes and then closes the door

My words spill out of me, but they’re not beautiful

Yet the urge always gets to me

And I love to tell people I’ve just written something

While hiding the words in a closet

Never to see the light again

You see, I’m a phony and a writer 

But who do I write for?

It’s like asking someone who do they live for?

And there’s always an answer, a song

A feeling like a melody

Like when autumn smells of fallen leaves

And you’re walking through the city and suddenly feel the urge to smile

You don’t know why, but if someone asked

You would have an answer

There’s always an answer

So tell me, who do you live for?

And who do you write for?

I personally have no idea