Two weeks old poet

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

and emotions

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”.

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