I’ve become far too familiar
with the sight of blank pages,
collected notebooks 
and guilt
with the thoughts of filling them.
To taint potential with inadequacy,
hope 
with
regrets.

It’s so much easier to sit and dream,
pretend you’re a poet,
preen and think of every 
masterpiece
you’ll never write.

I remember deleting projects
the day before they were due,
would rather submit hollow phrases
with the knowledge that bad marks
were a choice, not a reflection of
capability.

It’s 11:32 at night.
Not a lot has changed.
But at least I’m starting to turn 
something
in.