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I write poems but I’m no poet.
I’m a teenager,
wandering through an age
where nothing makes sense.
I’m lost in a forest
and hoping beyond hope
that my keyboard
will open up one day �
split right between
the “g� and the “h,�
the “t� and the “y� �
pry itself open like a ribcage
to show me a map.
It hasn’t done that yet,
but maybe this poem
will push it over the edge
if only I pour a little more
of my soul into it.
I write to reflect,
in the desperate hope
that between periods and capitals
I will find the answers
everyone is expecting me to know
in my soul.
I used to wish I could be an author,
writing perfect sentences,
weaving gripping stories,
creating new worlds
to gobble the reader up.
I write poetry because my words
do not fit together.
They have sharp, jagged edges,
teeth that bite
through your ears, or eyes.
I may not feel like a poet,
but I might just be.
It might not mean writing
beautiful rhymes,
or clever word play;
it might simply mean being lost �
and that is definitely me.