I'm not a poet
I shouldn't claim the like
Because a poet would know more
About struggle and strife
While I myself lay my head on a bed
Some poets stay up all night
Driving home their nails
Into the coffin of conviction
How dare I say I'm impaled.
While others wrote beautifully on social issues or on love
I sit and stare at the wall
I churn out writings on things such as white struggles and heartache
I'll write about the same boy over and over again with a different ad lib.
I'll write about voices in minds I can't reach or begin to comprehend
So tell me how I'm a poet, again?
Because I can write a line and hit an enter key
I somehow think I'm a cool *** thing.
Nah man, I'm not a poet
I'm a wannabe

all real and vivid as it seems to be
none of it can be felt completely
a fluffy vision being reeled to our consciousness
suddenly evolving into a great nightmare
*
human voices always
ruining the good dreams
yet are life-savers when
we have our worst nightmares

My stomach does shots
Of nervousness
Every time that you're around

Anxiety rules
This stuttering fool
Searching for words to be found

My palms start to sweat
First chance that they get
At the prospect of holding your hand

I'm weak in the knees
A month of Sundays
As my pounding heart strikes up the band

I'd up and leave
Make a line like a bee
If my feet didn't feel like concrete

Maybe one day
I'll have the nerve to say
Would you care to dance with me