I wasn’t even a poet two weeks ago
but I am possessive about my “art” now
don’t take to criticism very well
I now believe that the “star dust” I spray paint
my notebooks with
is capable of generating great epiphanies
I believe that when I put my ink to paper
i can hear hymns
I believe my free verse
compounds the versatility of human experience.
But there is this voice in my head
that won’t shut up
it’s telling me
at least you know what hubris is
if not the entire human experience
or its “versatility”.