Is There a Ghost

You know those impossible dreams

That we entertain in our heads,

Though we know they're preposterous?

You know that passion

(I hate the term, but for lack of a better one...)

That people have

For what they love?

You know how sometimes those get combined?

Yeah,

That just sort of re-happened for me.

I've dreamt of being a published writer

For a long time.

Five years or so?

But back then,

I wrote fiction.

(Really crappy fiction.)

((My fiction has since then become better))

And now,

I write poetry almost exclusively.

And now I have the insatiable desire

To publish.

Somewhere.

Anywhere.

It's one of those tortuous dreams

That you can't ignore.

It nags.

It finds ways of manifesting itself very realistically.

I have

16, 451 words.

138 pages.

From less than a year.

If I keep up this one-poem-a-day thing,

I'll have a ton of material.

A ton of publishable material?

It's another stupid fantasy I have.

I just can't shake it.

It lives in my subconscious,

Fed by a steady supply of my work.

It lives right next door to my unnerving love for a silly boy.

And they seem to be pretty chummy.

Two silly dreams,

That I constantly entertain.

Could one sixteen year-old girl,

Put together a book of poetry?

No.

No, I could not.

Nobody would publish me.

Society will tell you this.

So I guess,

I wait.

And let it nag at me until I can no longer stand

To deal with it.

138 pages.

Geez.