Before I Can Become a Writer

Develop insomnia. Develop
problems with substance abuse,
nothing serious, but enough
that I can say “write drunk,
edit sober” and mean it.
Drink tea. Write about drinking
tea. Take up smoking, ignore
the thoughts about it being
a slower suicide. Write about
suicide. Don’t mean it.
Write about sunsets and
ink veins. Mean it.

Fall in love with someone
who will never love me back.
Lament. Write a million
crappy poems and two good
ones. Never show him.
Move on. Write a few more
bad poems. Fall in love with
someone perfect. Screw it up.
Fall in love with someone awful.
Call him perfect. Screw it up.

Cry. Cry for the inevitable,
the way my family never
loved me right, the way my
first kiss was regrettable
at best, the way my therapist
says my depression is a demon
taking over me. Cry for the
changeable, the way
I hate my body and my writing
and everything I live to be.

Use clichés. Live clichés,
breathe clichés, be
a cliché. Write a poem
about how much I hate
clichés. Don’t mean it.

Acquire talents for:
narcissism, eloquence,
self-aggrandizement, denial,
and holding my liquor. Write
about places I’ve never been
and people I’ve never known
because I dreamt about it
once, and it felt real,

talk about depression.
Talk about anxiety.
Talk about love and
other drugs, use the word
fuck at least ten times.
Talk about the emptiness
inside of me and all
the things I tried
to fill it up with;

become a writer, instead.