I wouldn’t call myself a poet
I wouldn’t call myself a dancer
I wouldn’t call myself anything really
maybe sad
I wish I could write
I wish I could pour my heart and turn it into beautiful stories
I do pour my heart out
but I guess my heart isn’t as beautiful as I want it to be
I wish I could dance
I wish I could live
I wish I knew how
I had a teacher once who, when I would complain about being at school or tell her
I was tired or sad, she said to me “all you have to do is get up and show up. that’s
all you have to do”
but sometimes I can’t even do that
and I guess the irony is
I’m writing about I cannot write
dancing about how I cannot dance
living about how I cannot live
loving about how I cannot love
all while I’m doing
all of those things
and I’d like to think that means something
but when I’m driving, or I let my mind wander
I still think of all the ways that I could be better
all the way I can be better why can’t I just do it
how that could have sounded more eloquent
or looked prettier
how that could have that sounded better in my head than when I said it out loud
how that could have you
feel nice in my arms
can we stay like this forever
my heart is so broken
but yours is so beautiful
we can hold each other
and I promise I’ll pay you back someday
if I knew how
maybe if I were older
or paid a bit more attention
and I do but just in all the wrong places and at all the wrong times
when you’re tired
and I’m mad
and it’s been a really long day can we not right now
and it’s been a really long day
and I’m sorry
but I need you
and I promise I’ll pay you back someday
someday it will be someday
and I will have written all my stories
and danced all my dances
and lived all my life
and loved you
for a long time
but I don’t think I will have ever loved all my love
and I will have paid you back
and I will let out one really long breath that I’ve been holding ever since I first had the chance to breathe real air
