I Am Not A Writer
I have fingers which long to write,
but I discover too often that my head can’t find the words.
The paper crumbles when the pen touches it, and the ink smears.
I can feel in the recesses of my soul which longs to give its insight,
but my head has lost its touch and the lines are crude.
I make lazy strands of words and ask for their praise,
and they give it all too often and all too much.
I call myself an artist and paint myself as such.
Little do they known that my brush is brittle and my paint thin.
“Put it in the gallery,” they shriek with mocking tongues.
They want all to see the work that I had done.
I sigh at the blind eyes that call the blarren canvas beautiful
and pray that the other painters will revere my art as well .
My heart fears critics worse than anything else.
I have fingers which long to write, but that doesn’t make me a writer.
I just like long, pretty words and the sound that the keyboard makes.
I like the praise of others as they read what I have written,
but at the same time, I feel guilty because I have lied.
I am not amazing, I’ve just read a lot of books.
A couple a poems and a dictionary is all it took
to make myself a writer who steals lines like a crook.