Stop these doubts, mental jail bars, and iron tongues.
I was never good at words.
I still cannot convey the emotions that
I want to come across.
But my mouth is all I can use.
Gesticulations are not enough.
Can I come near to the perfection of which I am pining for?
My love for the words, for the phrases
that turns into metaphors and the sonnets
which Shakespeare wrote
and the Roald Dahl books I keep on my shelves are what I have when things get too much.
Even with letting go my pain and coming to terms with things...
how come I still struggle against myself?
Can I even approach the level which all poets must come to so that it is not about the words anymore but about the overall picture these words make?
Do I have the strength to ignore grammar
and punctuation for even a little while?
I am so close and so far away.
I want to die as a poet.
In a bath tub where the walls are paper
and the water is ink and after physically cleansing myself, I can begin to clean my soul too.
Am I a flickering flame that refuses to be blown out after a couple puffs of air?
Maybe I am, maybe i'm not.
But If I were to be this enduring flame of orange, red, and yellow, I hope that one day I can understand myself when I write these words so that I can truly achieve what I am looking for.
I want to spit fire.
But right now, all I can do is blow steam.