I learned how to write from the things that I read
and I described endless heroines who were
and I somehow acted like them but I’m not sure if it was myself

there was a time when I stopped reading
stopped writing earnestly
I would write in bursts that had only to do with description
briefly made, but thick and fumbled when trying to understand
and I wondered why I could not understand

how I could make myself into the thing I thought I was

but when I look at the catalog

I find traces of such promise
in these misbegotten words,

fueled by nothing at all that I could attach meaning to

it was then that I could take a topic and be objective
but when I tried applying any feeling,
any evocation

it fell so short

and I flipped the style and tried only to evoke
and tried to still somehow objectively write
about things I invented,


I told myself

were those things about me


3 thoughts on “Evolution

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