I am thinking of all the words that I never got to say; all of the letters and apologies, only published within my brain.

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?

(read forward, then backward, line by line)

I ran.
Not knowing what else to do
There was so much blood on my hands
It was mine
The kitchen knife
Caught in my chest
Guilt
Consumed by
Fear
I was heightened by
Adrenaline
But running on
Wasn’t enough
While trying to stay calm,
Losing control
It was me that would end up
Dead. Because
He was
In front of me
The whole time
It was too late
Trapped
I found myself
Locked in chains
My fate was
Death.

I want to write for you but I can’t
Shine a light for you but I can’t
Must inspiration depend
On the journeys end
I want to write for you
If you only knew
How much I want to write
I want to write a beautiful song
I want to write, but the words are wrong
With pure insight and sheer delight
I want to write

I want to write for you but I can’t
Light a candle, meditate and chant
Find fertile soil to plant
I want to write for you
Words bubbling like fountains
Gushing down mountains
Doesn’t have to be good
Even if it never could
I want to write for you is all
Simply for the joy that I recall
I want to write