poets write with care
as if they have control
as if they know something
when they know nothing.
we know nothing.


and that's why we create.

why is it
that I have
no secrets
at all

I can't find the words
No matter how hard I try
I've scanned the yard, I've looked outside
I've even looked to the sky.

Where did they go?
I know I saw them
Wrote them, took them, found 'em, catched 'em
Why, why, WHy?!

w
      o
          r
             d
                 s
                    !


Escape my grasp!
**** those words, they're too fast!
They astound, create, they flabbergast!
My brain can't catch a sight!

Fine, leave me!
See how you'll do!
Even though you've got nothing to lose
(and I've got an assignment due).

If want was water,
I would be drowning, my head under completely
and my oxygen quickly depleting.
If confusion was cold,
My fingers would be numb and I wouldn't even
have a coat to ward off the freezing.
If youth was you,
It would be slipping away by the second,
And I can't get a hold to stop it.
Now,
my air is gone,
I'm shivering to the bone,
and can't keep a hold on.
But, this is only a poem:
I know I'm not suffocating, subzero, or slipping.
But I can't help but feel like the more I write,
the farther I get from reality
and the closer I get to metaphor mortality.

*****