My Crush

I have taken up reading poems again to steal from them when words leave my company, For I will try, and try again to write something that comes ot as a part ot me though I have none to give and so I steal, nay, I borrow, and mould them to look like me, to speak like me, a confused identity, not shackled to the land it came out ot, going around, rudderless, drawing squiggles on everything angrily and desperately trying to assimilate. Who am I trying to fool? I do not sound worldly. I have not suffered enough. If poetry were to come out of pain, wouldn't there be a lot of poets now?