I can describe a rose in 12 petals,
A poem in a verse,
I can count the stars in the sky
As easily as change in my purse.
But you, my dear, allude me,
And I think the more I try just makes it worse;
I can never find the words to say
I cannot lift this curse.
I want to write my novel today
But sometimes to words won’t come.
I want my masterpiece right away
But aren’t brave enough to be undone.
I want to be a poet today
But sometimes I forget what that means.
I want the perfect verse right away
But aren’t brave enough to admit I need cleaned.
I want to sign my book today
But sometimes I forget my own pen.
I want to sell my words away
But aren’t brave enough to hit send.
I want to be well-known today
But most times by no one at all.
I’m willing to whittle my days away
But aren’t brave enough to let go and fall.
I feel absent from myself-
As is a writer’s nature
To live under the illusion of solitude,
Being overly attracted to words,
And believing in the necessity of art.
I’m not so good with words
Despite what the poems say
But trust when I tell you
It’s going to be okay.
Left only in the company
Of slithers of light along the wall,
Drawing harsh, poetic lines
Across my work.
What happened to the day?
At what point did the sun give in
Laying waste to all I’ve written?
What happened to my words?
When did they too, abandon me
Leaving me like a shadow in the dark
Unseen and reluctantly accepted?