I want to be able to have my words flow from my brain to the paper,
to have the pencil write freely. Running along side the lines,
creating worlds of the unexplained,
but for now I will have to settle for mediocre.
But one day, while I am engulfed in my ocean of thoughts
I will make a masterpiece.
Something that will be in books,
that people study from centuries from now.
They will question:
What is the theme of this poem?
How is this accomplished?
Theses students will deconstruct the poem,
to only find there is not meaning.
My vulnerable poem will lay there hanging,
with its blood spilled around.
Gasping for air, to tell them that they misunderstood.
Then it will dawn on them...
The poem was only meant to be enjoyed.
But it will be to late.
It will no longer hold the wonder it once held.