Rosa Nightingale

She says I should publish a poetry book

I scoff and think, "As if!"

Flattery is flattery, and she's my friend

But I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't consider it

I suppose she has no reason to be mendacious

I've never outwardly written about or to her

Though I've conjured many in my flighty brain

I only started after she left my everyday life

So in a way, I ought to trust her more than those I see more often

She has no reason to lie, I don't think

And I doubt she's blinded by the sycophantism I spew at others

But I don't know

I can't help being skeptical, since I write them for my own sake

And truly, I'm not the best judge

The poems are my innards, so of course I'm obliged to say they ought to stay inside

But I'm also about abstractly opening myself up

And that might be a good method

I don't have money right now to publish anything

I can barely print three pages, due to expenses and all

But someday somehow I may take her up on her advice

It's charming how she keeps begging

"Poem book, poem book, poem book"

I'm already pretentious enough without someone stroking my ego

Still she's a sweetheart in every sense

And I miss her entirely

So hearing praise from her- 

Although I may disagree a bit-

Always brightens my day, when the rain tries to drown me.