That poem you didn’t write
last night
when you were drunk
and slobbering
and a just little bloody,
the one you were about to jot down
when you closed your eyes
for a minute
waking up much later
to the bright light
of a blinding hangover
– that one…

That was a good poem.
You did good work
with that one,
all its potential unsquandered
all of its eloquence still locked
within your pulsing skull.
The poem you can’t finish
and can never show
is clearly better
than all the others
you’ve presented to audiences
absolutely unimpressed.

You should be proud of that poem
you didn’t write
and do a lot more
like it.
Please
try.