So you wrote a poetry book
you are so young
everyone praises you for being
so famous, so beautiful,
your words so fabulous,
you stare at yourself in the mirror
take pictures of how truly wonderful you are.
Forget how years ago
you almost killed yourself
that was not you
who put stones in your pocket.
You cannot remember that girl anymore.
Now you are number one all over the world
and your poetry is a best-seller.
This praise has left you fully clothed
with designer shoes and purse.
You feel so content and send pictures
from your book signing,
one day you are in London,
the other in Paris
all these cities you’d never thought you
would ever see.
You post your uplifting quotes
and get five thousand likes in seconds.
You have truly made it in 2016.
Congratulations strangers boast
emojis placate your cell phone
your battery dies
you feel lost
you need to see how many likes
you have on your last poem
family bakes you a cake
to celebrate this journey of yours
and the last place you want to be
is at your grandma’s sharing cake
with all your family
who never even read your book.
You fell in love with yourself
when you sold so many copies.
Everyone’s version of you now
is exactly how you knew
you would come out
You were destined for greatness.
Every friend on social media
says your book is phenomenal.
A poet arises
she is not as glamorous
she does not care for
designer scarves as much as you do
she speaks in a language you never heard
You never read poetry.
You only speak from the heart
and this is all you have ever known.
She comes from a place of silence
cares about the trees and the oceans
more than her likes.
Suddenly, she passes you in followers
Jealousy and rage turn you into
the one you forgot about,
the one you left hidden.
Her book is number one
and she uses this imagery
you never imagined existed.
You cry at the injustice of it all
you now have to defend your quotes
about how beautiful you are.
You make up lies.
you are desperate now
she is on television
and she is so ugly
how could people love her poetry?
Your book is still number one.
She only sold five thousand copies
but she is getting some kind of award.
That night you get so drunk
you forget who you are.
You give in,
you buy her book.
You cry at her words
and find yourself in her poetry
more than you ever found yourself
in your very own.