quarter life crisis

I have never been gray

And I think I’ve written about this before 

which only emphasizes the fact that 

I have never been gray.

I either 

think about someone every second of the day or

Forget they exist

Give you the shirt off my back or

Put on a sweater to style it.

And I keep trying to come up with something to blame this on-

My parents

My star signs

The fact that it’s 11:55 p.m. on a Wednesday and the moon is waning.

But the answer keeps coming up the same.

I am a writer-

More than that,

I am a poet. 

As much as I dread admitting it sometimes, 

But I am a dramatic

Ungrammatical

*Insert nature-alluding cliche metaphor here*

Poet. 

For f***s sake, 

I have the word writer tattooed on the side of my hand. 

I just thought I could do something useful with it,

So I went to journalism school. 

Unfortunately, it took me four years to realize that journalism is undeniably

gray.

It saved me heartache

And an unpredictable future,

But it couldn’t erase 

The poet. 

So this begs my next question:

How do I tell 

My permanently tear-stained cheeks,

Calloused hands,

And broken heart, that

Maybe 

Passion isn’t such a bad thing?