This seems nearly too heretical to divulge in a poem
But simply put, I don't live to write
Random words don't course through my veins
Waiting to be put in their place
My mind isn't lithe enough
To deftly choose exactly the right phrasings
My body was not meant to express
itself at a poetry slam
My face won't bear the expression
That matches the desired emotion
The thing is, I wasn't meant to write
And that's why, simply put,
I will never get enough.
I can't consume enough of this drug
This naieve supposition that my words
Could be more than words
That they could mean something
To someone other than myself.
That's why I write.
Because as I write I can't help but feel that
Somewhere, I'm good enough.