I'm a pathetic poet
I don't know how to turn my thoughts
Into something beautiful
Like all the other poets do.
They turn the darkest of fears,
Darkest of secrets,
Into a field of flowers,
A woven tapestry,
A comprehensible piece.

Not something like this.

How can I describe the overlapping voices in my head?
My mind is a jungle,
A tangled piece of string—
Or maybe a chain
Anchored to my foot as I drown.
My mind is an ocean
With waves that cannot be tamed.

I'm a pathetic poet.
I can't turn my thoughts
Into something beautiful
Like all the other poets do.
But I'm not a poet.
And my thoughts aren't beautiful,
But I want to believe that they are.

—March 2018