“You are a poet,”
She told me,
And maybe words can make it so.
My pen blazes its trail
Heedless
Regardless
Careless
And yet
So
Very
Careful.
I’d like to be a poet
But I am an adolescent:
Ungainly, gawky, disjointed
Growing, perhaps,
Maturing, maybe,
But still covered in those awful pimples
And sweating through my makeup.
I feel a longing
Discontent
Baffling in a way that makes perfect sense.
An “if only” added to a “but actually”
Sandwiched between two slices of denial
With a side of greasy fries.
I pause to self-edit
But make myself press on.
Maybe if I don’t acknowledge the failures,
They’ll simply
Disappear.
Written March 13, 2014
Behold the Infinite 
Words are the ONLY thing that will make it so.
Well done.
Thanks 🙂
Poet, captivated me and although the words said you were an adolescent I felt that you couldn’t possibly be but that you were using it as a metaphor somehow. But I read you about page and you are young in years. This piece serves as a reminder to me that everyone has there gifts to share and age has nothing to do with it. Thank you!
Sorry for the delay in replying, but thank you for your words! I was indeed writing in metaphor — at the time, the ungainly state of adolescence reflected the awkwardness I felt when I tried to write poetry. This particular poem was an exercise in freewriting, where I made myself keep writing no matter how silly I felt. I’d say it worked to some degree, although I couldn’t help but go back and edit a word here or there 😉