imposter syndrome

I don’t deserve
to take myself seriously.
I’m a fraud, a fool, a dilettante, a dumbass.
taking yourself seriously
is for winners.
that’s why I make sure
to make lots of faces
after I play a song.
just in case anyone thought
I was sincerely hoping
to deserve your serious
attention. I’m just anticipating
the critique that has long since
stopped coming. it now resounds
only in my own head. if I admit
all the flaws first, will I escape
the put-down?

no. there’s no point.
might as well pretend
that I don’t hate myself.
maybe if I do it long enough,
I’ll finally start
to believe it.

too bad he’s so good

the problem with men
when you see how
they are with children
that aren’t their own
is that – if you are a woman
who has ever entertained
the thought of possibly
dating that man – there’s a tiny,
treacherous voice
inside your head
that whispers, “what
if they were ours.”

you don’t want kids
because you assumed
that you’d get stuck with them
because that’s what happened
to your mother, and her mother
and back on down the line.
you always thought
that if you met the right man
who wanted to take care of them
you’d be willing
to pop one out, take one
for the team.

so it’s bittersweet, to
see him being
so good with them. that’s


be with me
and be my love, love me
with all your might
in the few hours
we have left
before you leave.
come and love
me like there’s no
tomorrow, come
prove there is
no distance that can
break us, there is no
darkness that can quench
our light. come and let
the memories we make tonight
be my candle against
the long dark days
to come, when
we’re apart. come
into me and warm me,
come gently and hold me,
do whatever you want but just

mother goose

Thirty days hath October,
April, May, and February;
January, July, and September
have twenty-eight,
all the rest have twenty-nine.
Excepting last year, that’s the time
when June’s days were thirty-nine,
December’s, thirty-one and August’s, thirty-five.

If you doubt the reason
behind my rhyme, then
make your own calendar
to mark your own time.

what a difference

three days ago
I thought I had something
to tell you. it seemed
very important
to my sleep-deprived brain.
now I think
maybe it doesn’t matter.
it won’t change
a thing, and you don’t
care. I’ve gotten
some sleep, and my
blood has cooled, and
I’ve seen some things
that made me think.

why do I bother
to torture myself
over things that don’t matter
to anyone but me?

if I knew the answer
to that, maybe I’d know
what a difference
those three days