She wants to be a writer.
She wants to touch the souls of millions.
She wants to write verses and stanzas
that describe the world in impressively
complex metaphors that require a master's degree
to fully understand and analyze
but the problem is her words lack depth
the issue lies in the fact that,
while she wants to be the beatnik standing on
the street corner offering poetry to the world
drinking coffee and little-known kinds of tea from
a small local shop because she's sticking it to
the Man by refusing to buy into National enterprises,
wearing horn-rimmed glasses, and running her hands
subconsciously through her artistically cut and dyed hair,
she doesn't actually like coffee and she gets bored
standing around for no reason and her mom won't
let her get glasses that aren't on sale and won't let her
dye her hair because it is too expensive to keep up.
She knows that her poems will never be published in
literary magazines because they lack depth due to her
problem-free, upper-middle-class upbringing in the
suburbs. She writes in a moleskin notebook to try and
seem more intellectual and sometimes she pretends that
her parents died in a tragic eight car pile up on the side
of the highway but they're always ok when they call at
night to check if she needs money in her bank account.
She doesn't have anything meaningful to write about,
so she writes about her meaningless life, but she doesn't
want to sound self-centred so she writes in third person.
The un-read poems pile up on her desktop and she knows
she will always be a closet poet.