Neither to imagine inarticulately the moon,
Nor to articulate unimaginatively the sun,
But to scan the celestial sphere for sublime inspiration: the poet.

Yearning
to be something i'm not
to be someone i'm not
Artistic
what does that mean
does it mean I can articulate my feelings  
beautifully
does it mean I can sing
or dance
or rhyme
or cry
or read
or breathe
or love
beautifully?
I don't think I can
how sad
that i'm not artistic
how sad

I can't cope when my
page stares at me
White, soft and gentle
Empty, dull, lifeless
And the burden to fill it
becomes so heavy
My quill in the inkpot
Pen and pencils, unused
And I feel so flustered
when I am unable to
tell my truth

Words I think wither
Creative juices dry
My mind becomes a
disastrous chorus line
And I feel so trapped,
unable to talk with
my pen

I'm taken back to the
days where my soul
was heavy with pain
That pain was soothed
when I stained my page
with words because now
I had a medium and I
could go forth, confident
and free

When I stare at the canvas
I remember that little girl
who found a way to be
seen and still be unseen
That's the feeling I have,
was born with, that gives
me so much comfort
I can protect myself and
guard myself from how
the world wants girls to
be seen and how I don't
fit the mold

I find I feel more at peace
to be part of that world
that draws it breath
from the words
on my tongue
drawn onto the
canvas by my
right hand

But the words, I find hard
to pour on the page in new
verses. The page that is
empty and free, is
somehow grinning
at my misery