Just to start off, I
am not a poet
But people see me as
one though,
Cause when I write I
want to rhyme every time,
And this addiction
is bringing me some friction.
You.
You know I am not a
poet
But when I feel the
urge,
Before I write,
Veins begin to
pulse,
Heart beats to the
rhythm of a drum,
Which can only be
heard
In the loudest of
areas.
Then I stop
breathing...
Air is still, body
is calm,
(exhale) then I
begin,
I want to write the
perfect poem,
But I know I can't.
Every thought formed
in my mind,
The flashes of
words,
Continuation of
phrases.
Formulating around
my brain,
Surging more words
and phases,
Which hit the page
in disorder,
Leaving me
lost.
I want to write the
perfect poem,
But I know I can't.
I get worked up on
the words I have written down,
Then I stop, with no
conclusion.
And fall,
The same feeling I
had
When I first rode my
bike,
Able to see ahead of
me
Then slowing down,
Tilting over, and
crashing onto the pavement.
Hand scared by the
end,
In need of self
repair.
I want to write the
perfect poem,
But I know I can't.
I know I can dream
of one,
Every piece of
imagination,
Through the focus of
my eyes
In the background of
a picture
Beside the future I
saw 2 days ago.
I see it escaping
me,
Slowly.
Waiting for me to
catch up,
Hopefully.
When I finally
finished my poem,
I read it over,
I sink in to my
seat,
Slowly slipping,
Closer to hitting
the ground,
Wondering what went
wrong,
Why it is not
perfect,
Why I can't I write
a perfect poem,
The only problem
with what I thought,
I not about writing
a perfect poem,
Because there is no
such thing as one....
And what I have
written,
In that moment
Is the closest to
perfect as it will ever be.
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