frustration streams from me the way
i wish inspiration would stream
from the world
into my toes, through my nerves, into my soul
and right back out through my fingertips,
the way i wish words would sprint from
the edges of my lips as i speak
running a marathon that stretches into the distance
in front of a crowd, in front of no one.

how can i describe it in another way
when what i feel is what we’ve all felt
so many times before?
why do i seek different words,
different structures for sentences
when the easiest way to help you understand
is to use the same trite phrases
that best describe it?

i cannot find the words i seek when i speak
or even when i write
(forgive me for not reaching out,
for not trying harder)
i cannot find the soul i need for empathy
(forgive me for not trying to ease your pain,
for not forgiving you)
i no longer know why i try to communicate
anything, why i try to express myself
(forgive me, i can’t understand
why i bother to repeat words that’ve been etched and whittled
into our world)
writing used to be my salvation
when words failed my lips but now
writing has turned from a way to scream out thoughts
into just another place where i fall short
just another comparison
(it shouldn’t be that way and
i don’t care right now for the indecisiveness
that floods me every time i choose to try).

i am searching so desperately for originality
but originality isn’t really necessary
in creating a sense of community
the feeling that maybe you do belong
and cliches
are simply just gut-deep truths
they are only cliche because they are
a shared sentiment
and i am willing to sacrifice standing apart
for not standing in that spotlight of loneliness
but secret shards of me still ache to
be different, be more.

this is not my niche
i thought i could carve a spot for myself
with time
but every word i write seems pretentious
to my eyes.


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