Feelings are funny.
My notes app is a compilation of ideas for poems,
a train passing through the station
Maybe one will stop long enough to pick me up.
I’ll grab onto the pole to angsty-poem-land
but that’s rare.
Typing on my computer during my spare moments of free time.
A friend asks me a question

again
I’m tapped on the shoulder,
pull out my earbuds,
surface from this underwater space,
and answer a homework question.
The idle adolescent conversations fill my ears,
grounding my thoughts in reality.
Come back to me, creativity,
oh, you goddess of pain and beauty.
You created me and my suffering to make a slightly better world.
Was it worth it?

I’m agnostic about you.
You don’t exist until I believe in you.
I don’t exist until you believe in me.
Come back to me.
Your power flowed through my fingers, 
sparked neural connections,
and told me I could be.
Existence was your bane,
and death was my wish. 
I write to become closer to you
in my sparse moments of free time.
Typing is praying
and letters are a sacrifice.

I think I do believe in you,
but do you believe in me?
I can stay devoted to you,
look to the heavens so that you might be able to see Earth more clearly,
build a shrine with collages and scribbled half-poems,
but you don’t seem like you would pay attention.
Why don’t you believe in what you create?

I am your creation (Jesus was self-centered too),
a child born of an intricate framework, bonded by atoms and terra,
willing to give it my all.
But if you don’t, who will?
It’s your art.
Your idea.
If they don’t get it,
It wasn’t for them.
You preach that your ideas are for everyone.
Creation is the highest form of self-love.
You don’t even believe in that.
Goddess of creation, what are these moments for?
I am delaying work that will graduate me from an institution,
built for money and control.
YOU CREATED IT ALL
YOU HYPOCRITE