I write it anyway

I keep writing poems like they’re messages in bottles

tossed into Wi-Fi.

Like maybe someone scrolling at 2 a.m.

will mistake my over sharing for art.

I tell myself this is practice.

That not every poem has to mean something.

But wouldn’t it be nice

if just one did?

I laugh at my own insecurity —

that’s my thing.

I turn fear into punchlines,

pain into pacing,

self-doubt into content.

It’s practically brand management at this point.

I don’t know if I’m any good.

That’s the thesis.

The headline.

The song that never hits the chorus.

I delete whole paragraphs

like maybe backspace can erase the part of me

that needs to be seen.

Then I write them back again

because apparently I can’t take a hint.

Sometimes I imagine my words matter —

that they sit in someone’s chest

like a breath they didn’t know they were holding.

Other times, I imagine they don’t matter at all,

and weirdly, that’s almost comforting.

Taylor would make this sound beautiful.

She’d hide the panic under folklore and piano.

Me?

I rhyme heartache with mistake

and call it vulnerability.

I don’t know if I’m any good.

But I’m still here,

still writing poems to no one in particular,

still chasing the feeling that maybe, just maybe,

this line will be the one that saves me

from thinking I have nothing to say.

Because maybe the point isn’t being good —

maybe it’s being honest.

Maybe it’s still trying

even when the doubt gets loud.

So yeah,

I don’t know if I’m any good.

But I write it anyway.

I write it anyway.