Sometimes I get so angry with myself.
In my head I make myself explode into a
thousand tiny pieces,
like shreds of paper that once held the finest literature,
filled with pretty metaphors,
but are now nothing more than a writers destroyed soul.
I get angry because I’m not that writer.
I can’t fumble through
my cluttered head
to find the words to compare you to the stars and the moon.
I can’t dig beneath the mess
and conjure up the most extravagant metaphor
to let you know how incredible you are.
Words are my only weapon,
they’re my only friend,
but when I need them most
they fail me.
Because I don’t think there’s a word to describe you.
You’re not the stars and the moon –
you’re so much more.
You shine brighter than anything the human eye can see.
I’m angry because I need to let you know how brilliant you are.
The burning desire in your heart
is so much stronger than any word I can think of.
I’m falling apart;
I’m shreds of paper,
shards of glass beneath your bare feet,
broken pieces of your heart.
I’m not good enough.
You’re the stars and moon
and I’m dullest shade of grey.