it’s 23 degrees out and for the first time in a month-
i’ve wanted to write

i feel like a fake poet,
because to be a poet
shouldn’t you write?

i haven’t been writing
and im taking comfort in this thought.

someone said once, that its okay
because youre living the life you would write poetry about,
and your heart
just hurts too much to actually do it
and trust me,

my heart feels too much at this point
from crying at the sight of a red mini cooper to
having a daily episode in which
i catch myself thinking about what i would have gotten for dinner if i were home
or sobbing because i haven’t heard 70’s Bollywood without my mother’s voice interrupting my favorite song in months
and panic just covers every bit of me
and univited emotion just kind of gets out because

i miss home
and thats the one place im not allowed to go to

living here seems surreal-
like its a dream
its hard to believe that

i took all my things
stuffed it into 4 suitcases
got on a flight
and just
moved

i left
everyone i know
i am
alone
and i am
lonely

i am living the things people write about
immigrants and the struggles they face
and how they always feel out of place and-

im living that
and half of me wants
to give up,
go home,
and be a poet
who writes again.

-28/3/17, 2pm outside the prince theater.

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