All Rights Reserved ©

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.

Continue Reading Next Chapter

About Us

Inkitt is the world’s first reader-powered book publisher, offering an online community for talented authors and book lovers. Write captivating stories, read enchanting novels, and we’ll publish the books you love the most based on crowd wisdom.