I Don't Know What To Call This One
I know my poetry isn’t like everyone else’s.
I know it’s different.
I read others’ writing and I feel small.
I know my writing lacks metaphors,
it’s not profound,
it’s not meaningful.
It’s just sad.
It doesn’t bring out smiles or tears.
I wish my brain could accurately explain pain;
not just with stupid words,
but with emotion.
I wish I could look at a blank page
and be able to compare it to
an ocean of potential and possibilities
using words strung up like Christmas lights.
Instead all I see is a blank page,
and my vision blurs with salt crusted cystals
that fall when I close my eyes.
See? I’m trying to be artful with my phrases.
I’m still not good enough.
It’s still not profound enough.
I’m still just staring at a blank page.
Why, when my entire body is racked with such
raw feeling, can I not turn it into real poetry?
I’m just speaking here.
Where’s the Emily Dickinson?
Robert Frost? Edgar Allan Poe?
Poetry brings me to life,
but I can’t seem to do the same for it.
I see no paths diverging into a wood,
no fire and ice.
Where is my raven, where is my Annabel Lee?
I crave words.
I live and breathe them.
But the right ones always elude me.
I will never live up to what I wish I could be.