Before, it didn’t matter what I
Or how long it took
Or how good it sounded
It only mattered that I
It wasn’t about how many poems I could
Or how many syllables I
Or how many blank pages I filled up.
It only mattered that I let the words spill from my brain to my
Ink stained on paper.
It wasn’t about how I could one-up someone else
Or if I was the best
Or if I was even someone
to begin with.
It didn’t matter if people liked what I had to say and it
didn’t matter if anyone read it
The only thing that mattered was that I wrote.
I’m starting to think I liked it better that way.