Poet

“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

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4 thoughts on “Poet

  1. 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 😉

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