Moonlight reaches down and strokes my cheek,
Waking me to her smile.
That’s what a real poet would say, right?
‘It’s just a hobby.’
‘Emily, you’re going to college to find a real job, not write poetry.’
I will starve,
The wolves say.
Oh, they’re not wolves in the literal,
But with suits, ties, fake chapped-lip grimaces.
Cufflinks that cost precisely one poem.
I will drown in my own debt,
Economy replacing passion,
Lethargy replacing my skin.
‘What do you like to do?’
I do not mention how it wakes me at night,
Fingers tremulous with unbirthed words,
Images flowing out of my head and into ink onto a page…
No, that’s too personal;
I refuse to sell myself,
For sorry little bills.
But I must,
So I do,
But I save a little piece of myself
Put it away
And write what they like to hear.