As I sit here, your words dripping over the screen
like so much molasses over the strawberry haze
of my tiny and outdated monitor,
I cannot help but question these insignificant inspirations.
My own words seem cheap, eye candy to the fifteen
year old girls always looking for an excuse to love
but they never really love just open themselves to the rape
and try to believe that they liked it.
You make me feel like that scared little girl again
not quite so sure of myself anymore
and not half as arrogant as I was when you found me
wandering the streets in clothes that barely fit.
I spend my life trying to become what you are
memorizing the curves of your letters as you speak
in a continuous loop, thousands of voices on
thousands of pages repeating your words in my head.
But no matter how much I try to bend my body
to fit into your contours I never resemble you.
You shame me with the sheer brilliance of your thoughts, Mari.
My eyes hit the floor every time I realize that,
despite what I'd hoped for, I will never be you, William.
Your lips part, Janet, and fill me with words of praise
but really... deep down... I know that you surpass me
in ways that tempt me to shut my own lips and
never again deign to open them lest I insult your very genius.
So here I sit. On this carpeted floor in this noisy office building,
my poetry scattered about me on antiseptic white pages.
So cheap. So banal. How did I ever let you lie me into the belief
that this mental vomit could one day be great?