I’m having trouble with words lately.
It feels like everything I write
sounds off — wrong.
I keep thinking it’s great, but then
it’s published and criticized
for things out of my control.
It’s a hard feeling to contest with,
especially when my livelihood revolves
around the words I type on a page.
I know, sometimes it’s my fault.
I type the wrong name or title,
or I confuse subject-verb agreements.
I truly enjoy the work,
but sometimes it feels … empty,
as if my words don’t land on the tarmac
and instead decapitate the tops of trees
to crash in a forest of angry
interpretations and unknown objects.
I read a book recently
were a young female character described poets,
true poets, as people who leave something
beautiful behind.
It’s not poetry, what I write,
but maybe one day I’ll find the beauty
in my stories. One day,
I’ll write with as much passion as
my heart feels, thumping
out of rhythm as my day
rolls away.
I’d like to think I leave something
beautiful here,
but I’m a poor judge
when it comes to these things.
I feel like a child,
a child shroud in a green parka,
a child facing a world too tall
to reach.
My kid hands grasp
at every balloon ribbon floating past
and stray star shining in the sky,
praying to no one
to keep me sane.
So It Goes 