I could write words for days,
and still not mean a single one of them.
I could feel something so strong,
and never find the right words to write.
I could spill my heart out
onto a page, or a blog post,
and come off disingenuous.
I could fabricate falsehoods
with consonants, and vowels,
that would seem to emulate,
even perpetuate, a sense of realism.
More often I find my self
feeling lost in a whirlwind of words,
like violently swirling tornadoes.
There are fields of flowers
with letters written on them,
but they never seem to
let me uproot them in the order
I require to paint pictures
using the vowels and consonants
sprawled out on their petals.
I am getting better by the letter.
The way of the pen is more
then spilling the ink kept with in them.
Spending seconds, hours, days, weeks, years,
seeking for words like
seeking for specific specks of sands
in sweeping deserts.
I’m getting better by the letter.
I’m getting better by the words.
I’m getting better by the poem.
I’m better better by the story.