I'm a poet & I sorta know it

I've been writing all my life, whether it be short stories, the first few introductory chapters to dead-end novels, or free verse poetry. Some of my most peaceful memories are of me, twelve-years-old, sat behind the computer screen with line after line of text glowing back. When I was in high school I was a part of my county's specialty arts program- I took specialized courses throughout my four years for creative writing. Quite a few of my best friends are from those very classes. I think some of the strongest bonds are made through the connectivity art provides. When you create art, you reveal your conscience and transmit it through an interpretable medium. I spent hours with these girls sharing words from the depths of my soul, and in turn I was able to indulge in theirs. In my head I romanticize these interactions and liken them to the friendships of the Lost Generation. We were like a bunch of jaded expats sitting in the dusk of a Parisian night, sipping red wine and musing over the temporariness of life.. passing typewriter manuscripts with coffee stains between hands and occasionally adding dashes of our own ink. 
Not really.
I don't know where I was going with all that. I guess I was trying to relay how much I valued their friendship and critical input when it came to my writing. When I went to college I took an introductory course for creative writing in my first semester. I didn't take any more thereafter and would only write sparsely. The other day I was browsing through some old files and found a few poems tucked away. I thought I'd share one, just for the fun of it. Don't judge too harshly- I rarely write anymore so my poet brain is rusted. 

OF LATE

enough

plenty- a full, filling serving of dissatisfaction,

at the edge of the cycle

the restart of submission.

i can't do this anymore and i kindly ask for you to

stop fighting it. 

just let it unfold and slowly chew,

chew, loosen your tongue, file your teeth

& swallow. 

digest- understand that i do understand you;

submit to my decision to defy your submission.

new seeds will settle themselves into the

flesh of the earth,

explore and filter the soil with their roots, 

blossom into bright bulbs

that will respect promises, 

keep your heart in theirs. 

yes, i've lost it- gone off the rails

and plundered into the murky abyss of mishaps

and misshaping. too many hands

pulling on nonexistent ropes 

but i've got it on my mind.

which means i've got it in my soul

to kiss and taste him

repeatedly, like a candy-coated broken record.

tender ideas unlike calloused knuckles

(wearing the brand of relentless kneading,

failed attempts at flawlessness)

and this idea of him is mine-

something you never were.