Write an ode to Starbucks.
Start a blog.
Smoke weed (but not too often) and practice yoga poorly.
Keep an expensive notebook inside a vegan leather backpack, and make sure you always write in public places. Display the notebook prominently on the table, even if you aren’t writing in it.
Act embarrassed anytime somebody mentions that you write poetry. Insist that you aren’t any good, but always have a short selection of poetry on hand to share, should the opportunity arise.
Chew on the tops of your pens until they are dimpled with incisor-punctures. Make sure you look like you are deep in thought.
Journal obsessively. If you didn’t write it down, it didn’t happen. Do bizarre things just so that you can record them in your journal.
Gnaw on your fingernails, the ends of your fingers, the carcasses of your cuticles. But keep trying to paint them. Write about how you wish you could stop the chewing.
Read cheap volumes of bad poetry. Read hardcover copies of selected Whitman. Read the sharpie on the library’s bathroom stalls. Read the creases in your tongue.
Stay awake until your nose won’t stop bleeding and then blog about how you’ve been feeling “off” lately and are considering trying a cleansing juice fast.
Siphon in SSRIs until you’re sick with serotonin. Drown yourself in dopamine and figure most poets were fucked up anyway.
Spend Saturday after midnight fingering brass buttons in bass-heavy basements. Find yourself hoping that one of them will rape you, so that you can write poems that someone will actually read.
Try to paint your nails on Sunday morning.
Discover that you have chewed straight to the bone.