I’m not a writer,
so I’ll give it to you straight—
without fancy words
or the metaphors I hate.

I’m a nobody
that’s never been a somebody,
that will never amount to anything—
and I’m just like you.
Admit it, it stings.

It’s not Go-thee,
it’s Goethe, I swear—
I’ve read every page,
just never learned where
the right sounds live
in a mouth like mine.

But make no mistake I’m not far behind.

And it might make you sad,
but it’s the sad truth.
When will you see
I didn’t waste my mind or my youth?

Time is a tightly closing fist
that has us all by the throats,
and we won’t escape the clock—
so hold me close.

I think and I dream,
and then I plant those thoughts
like deep-rooted flowers
in hand-painted pots.

I’ll never win a Pulitzer
or get an honorable mention,
but that doesn’t mean
I don’t live my life with intention.

And it might make you sad,
but it’s the sad truth.
When will you see
I didn’t waste my mind or my youth?

Time is a tightly closing fist
that has us all by the throats,
and we won’t escape the clock—
so hold me close.