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May 2014
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.
Paige Johnston
Written by
Paige Johnston  england
(england)   
235
 
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