I know that I'm trying to hard.
I'm not the natural poet
novelist
singer
dancer
lover
But I wish that I was.
I know the words dripping off my fingers
Onto these black-and-white plastic keys
Are ridiculous
over-the-top
unnecessarily esoteric
But where's the fun in life if you can't be disturbingly aware of your dysfunction?
This one girl
This ever-changing sunflower
She writes novels like there's no tomorrow.
At least, she starts them.
I don't have the creativity for that.
This other girl
An iris, though she'd rather be a daffodil
She writes poetry
Emotional, heart-wrenching poetry.
At least, that's the impression I get
I can't imagine it'd be anything uplifting.
But me
I occasionally get into a trance
In the shower
At the river
In my bed
And disjointed words fall out.
While they're flowers, I'm a leaf.
Unnecessary. Available in abundance.
But occasionally you can rip me out of my home-stem
And run me through your fingers
And tear out my veins.
These words are my veins.