I sign their names, as my own,
underneath their poems,
as if they were my own.
I claim that their words are my own;
their memories, emotions, are my own;
Because I am too scared to write
Perhaps this is a poem,
a thought in time,
that someone else can write down,
when writer's block sets in,
as their child interrupts because she poked herself
in her eye and needs a hug;
while their spouse is upstairs
watching YouTube instead of talking.
Perhaps we all need someone else
to tell us what we are,
who we are, and how we feel.
Perhaps we need to live vicariously through other
people because our own lives
are too clumsy, difficult, painful, mundane.