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.
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