I can spit out words in a matter of seconds
I can twist my thoughts into metaphors and anaphora and all this rhetoric they taught me,
they said it would make my argument stronger,
that it would make me a better writer
well
here I am,
am I?

I can do it all
I can make pain taste like sugar, granulate it so finely to where it melts on the tongue
I can cope my problems into understanding, make feeling alone no longer a possibility
I can even create something similar to hope with the way I form these phrases together
I can almost do it all, but
I cannot write you into my arms
I cannot place you in this bed next to me

I often wring passion into language, this pouring out becomes exhausting and
It doesn't matter how many times I rewrite this poem
Poems don't make people fall in love
People make people fall in love
I wish
I could make you fall in love but
I am not one of those who can

I've learned it doesn't matter how nice these titles are,
the stanzas, the formatting, the content is not important
Whether or not I bury my soul into the center is irrelevant when
you are currently the only thing living inside of it
Every time I pick up a pen or
a pencil or a page I hear you
My head has become a blank thesaurus, everything sounds like your arms holding
I search for inspiration and your name is all I can find
I want to say the same goes for you with mine but
that would be a lie more than
anything else

I guess that's what writing is more than anything else
deceit, fabrication, myth, romanticization
a reflection of everything we know to be false drawn into something it's not
I have been trying to scribe my way into your heart but
it's clear that I cannot let myself in without invitation
the welcome mat means nothing if it goes unread and
as much as I would like to get a call from you tonight,
it would be silly to wait up for fiction
I thought the rhetoric I've learned would help me feel better
I thought writing this might take away the aching, make me happier
well
here I am,
am I?