A poem for Ashleigh Young.

All the best things I’ve written are stolen

used and reused, patched together

from other, better things by other, better writers

from books out of the 50 cent bins at the Hospice shop.

All the best thing I’ve written are stolen

and I’ll try and tell you, look, I’m just doing the research

but really it’s a question of trust

We’re so busy giving it away, we don’t have any left for ourselves.

All the best things I’ve written are stolen

Imitation disguised as flattery, and then what do you do

when the original owner despairs;

‘Oh, I should never have called it that’?

Shit. What should we have called it then?

‘I barely knew you, and now you’re gone’?

‘Look, things like this just don’t happen’?

‘Why Am I Still Afraid of the Dark’?

All the best things I’ve written are stolen

like the way we used to blow up balloons and layer them

with papier mache, then slide a needle through

leaving emptiness preserved by yesterday’s news.

All the best things I’ve written are stolen

even from myself, I mean, I’ve done this poem before

the one about being a thief and a liar

who took your light bulb and planted it in my own garden.

All the best things I’ve written are stolen

and this thing definitely is, because the only way I could see

to doing it any sort of justice

was indelicate plagiarism, and mirrors.