I’ve never considered myself much of a poet.
Poetry describes the indescribable. It paints pictures and plays symphonies, fueled and forged by those who live. Poetry is driven by mystery, by magic, by life.
And while I can see magic when I look for it and feel life when I reach for it, I can’t seem to create any poetry of my own.
When I try to write those lines, my voice is concrete, blunt, literal. The sky is blue and the grass is green and I’m not sure I know anything. I am an expert at describing the obvious without romance or charisma or beauty.
I write poetry the way I live.
My life lacks poetry as much as my poetry does.
Maybe moments in my life could have been poetic if someone else had described them. That kiss in the rain, those rounds of applause, each time I realized I was in love.
Time would have stopped and the world would have stilled. They’d be magical, mysterious. Rain-scented and quietly moonlit. Ripples and waves and breathing.
Those moments would have been written in sonnets and couplets and iambic pentameter. Beautiful, transcendent, lovely.
But me, me.
All I can write is prose.