Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just
pretentious?

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?

I hate myself so much for this

I'm in this vicious cycle, see
The current pulling under me
I feel so numb and lost at sea

Sometimes in the ebbing tide
You can hear my lonely cry
Yet all the boats that come by
Leave me there alone to die

I hate myself so much for this

Some ships seem to understand
And come close with outstretched hand
But just to feel the wind and sand

The truth is, the fault is mine
I knew the dangers of the brine
But ships beyond the shoreline
Drew me in like fishing line

I'm weary of this twisted world
Lacking virtue and moral
No one's perfect but this extreme
Is a nightmare, not a dream

Despair is closing in around
Not a person have I found
Who wants person over flesh
Everyone's demanding ***

Many years have I spent
Watching for someone unbent
But such a soul I cannot see
In such a world we are not free.

I've never been great at poetry;
The process always fails for me.
While mister Poe and Shakespeare last,
My writing ends up in the trash.

Their writing style, lost with age,
Their wisdom hid in ev'ry page,
The glory given where it's due -
These are things I cannot do.

My writing's forced; theirs doth flow.
I say it blunt; they say it slow.
Those areas that bless and move
Are places where I can't improve.

So why, with my lack of skill,
Do I keep on writing still?
With such a hopeless case as this,
You'd think I would already quit!

There was a time when I did -
My desk was shut; my pen was hid.
Then something occurred to me
Which changed it all instantly.

If Dr. Seuss had Shakespeare tried,
And Mr. Poe glorified,
And given up in dismay,
We wouldn't have his books today.

So keep on writing how you do
With that style unique to you.
Put your mind into use
(You just might be another Seuss)!

What am I doing with my life
Going nowhere with my lies
Hiding envy behind the door
Holding anger and even more

I want my friends just for me
That's no place that love could be
I count others' gifts instead
And think too much inside my head

I can't remember when I last
Had a true and honest laugh
Could be their fault, could be mine
I'm a misfit - and that's fine

I just wish I had the smarts
Or lack thereof, a social heart
To be myself without the fault
But make friends as sweet to salt