The Poet
The Poet
I crave to be that poet
who makes sense of the words
that don’t understand
why to be understood.
The poet that mixes
the different languages
sólo porque puedo.
The poet that lingers
inside my mind,
whispering, scoffing
decepcionado conmigo.
“Poor little white girl,”
they mock
“struggling with your silly pen.”
my overfilled brain
tries to conjure a response.
The poet I long
to be,
crave to be,
need to be,
haunts me,
mocks me,
kills me.
What am I
if not just pen
on paper?
Not who
but more so
why?
Questions, questions
yet no answers.
Strange…
The poet
is not here
with answers,
but yet more
questions.
Waves of inspiration
grasp you,
forbidding you from thoughts
that don’t align.
The poet sends
these prisons
the sentences long
and challenging.
“Down,
motivation.”
The poet would call
inside my mind.
“Not needed.
Like her paper,
Fingers,
Breathes.”
The skin is nothing
but a cover.
Hiding the mechanic,
with scars,
bruises,
freckles.
I am the skin.
Hiding the poet.
Like a mist
over a forest.
Ghosting over the
leaves, over the trees.
The poet drowns me
until I am nothing but
a mere idea.
The water cold
and
harsh on my skin.
My arms fail,
like a bird with broken wings,
my wings torn because
of the poet.
They shoved me out
of my nest, my branch, my tree,
my home,
too soon.
The poet I long to be
is slowly killing me.
Vi is a part of SCAPA Literary Arts as a Sophomore and is a part of The Pride of Bluegrass Band. They like writing short stories, micro-fictions, and poetry. They love listening to classic rock music while baking. When he’s not doing that you can usually find them drinking coffee while watching TV with their crazy cat (Woodrow) or going on a walk with his Chocolate Labrador (Neville).