Letter to brown.

I wanted to write
well, i only talk
of honestly, and i pick
out the worst in everyone
and make it a beautiful
little piece of angst
others can ponder
and study
and reflect
and see the fucking puss
that seeps out of my
creative integrity
into page numbers
and sentence structures
that everyone writes,
That i write about
how blow jobs
seem so similar
to modern poetry
and how fucking
the girl of your dreams
is just like
accomplishing them
i wanted to write
that no writer
captured the emotion
like i could,
that no one
could say
that they couldn't
see the exact
feeling i was
trying to portray
and that
 i didn't care
who says otherwise because
reading other
peoples poems
only makes me
vomit inside
my mouth,
and I'm sure
it has
the same
effect on you.

but instead i wrote
"oh, i think
i'm talented enough."