in progress
i hesitate to call my writing poetry.
i have them saved,
all four hundred something —
under the umbrella of “thoughts.”
that is all they are to me.
words that tumble out
into an order that seems
vaguely rhythmical,
vaguely metaphorical.
poetry by happenstance.
sometimes, rhyme by accident.
i wonder why so many of
my thoughts end in questions.
why so many of them
end in pleas.
i question the questions,
trapped in an eternal loop
of back and forth
in my own head.
i know that writing
is what keeps my sane.
otherwise the words
in my head remain
on collision courses.
there is power in labels,
perhaps if i called my writing
poetry with any form of confidence,
i would write differently.
think deeper about the choice
of words.
but now, i just taste the thoughts
on my tongue for the briefest
of moments before letting them
slip out into the world.
i am a poet in progress,
with a page half full,
and a head bursting with
thoughts that beg to be
immortalised in imperfect verse.