A short poem about the struggle that is being a poet |
I think I could be a poet. Or at least I’ve tried to think I could. I have no care for grammar and I twist life rules into single syllables. I think I could be a poet I love the way that words taste and tiny lines fashioned with a single thought can become masterpieces, mind bending riddles and symphonies that crackle your very heart until it breaks off into three pieces of hopeless severity. I think I could be a poet for I love to sit and mend my footprints into rhyming patters that collide into turning twists. And I understand that poetry isn’t just for anyone but that it is for the brave and the beautiful and those who can mold words into waves and formations that pierce like candied bullets on the tide right through your heart, that vicariously stamp and beat on your lungs until you bleed realization and contemplation of everything you ever pretended to believe, leaving you a gasping flake of human, until all you can manage to scratchily, and uncontrollably whisper is “wow”. I think I could be a poet for to me, each letter has a personality, each comma is a drug and every period or exclamation mark is a gunshot, one that reverberates and suffocates. And no matter what I do, when I speak truth I want it to fit like a puzzle in me. I want it go on paper or a book so that anyone and everyone can touch the letters I made connect so perfectly and they will understand just what I meant. I think that I could be a poet or maybe an author. But we all know how it flows. How the letters are right in here but come out a language only I can translate. And we all know how it goes. When one person speaks with such fluency and with magic traces of ecstasy, seems to silence the world just for a few minutes, and then I’m up too. And everyone’s looking at me and my page hoping my words will leave them in a mess just as before with the juggler of lyrical phrases and shorts who seems to speak with pure elegance as if taught by beautify herself. And then there’s me no experience, stories, lost loves to be told just a pencil and a paper and maybe guilt unfolding sometime soon like a broken paper swan or a, I don’t know, crinkled alarm clock paper slip, “I’m late.” I think I could be a poet. But, I don’t know, I haven’t had enough time to think what I want to do or even be for me and the world are just getting started. I think I’m a poet. Maybe you’ll know when I am. Or at least that’s my refrain. |