i sit here
pining and whining
and wishing and wanting
to call myself
a writer

and i know
i know
my goodness i know
that i am a writer
as soon as i write
and i sit down every morning
and compose poem
after poem
after poem

but this desire is different

i want to create whole worlds with
the tip of my finger/pen/brain
i want to carry an audience on
a whole-ass journey and lead them
from beginning
to middle
to end

what i’m saying is

i wish to write prose
story
script
screenplay
novel
novella
creative essay
anything
i could even do it in poetry
if it felt right
but all i write
are these tiny windows into my own soul
and morning
while day
and night
i have epics unfolding inside me
and the minute i dedicate
a minute
or hour
or day
to getting it down
on paper/document/screen/anything
my skill with words seems
so
elementary
so
amateurish
so
trying too hard and getting not far at all
and i give up after
a page
a paragraph
a word

but the want

it remains