Axton Randolph
“Poetry is Hard.”
I stare at the screen,
the phrases echoing,
a symphony of doubt in my own abilities;
meshing together as I try and write.
I do not consume poetry;
nor do I listen to classical music.
I am not the influential artist,
I want to be,
I am messy;
I am clumsy.
The line between prose and poetry blurs,
As stanzas form.
“Do I be direct?”
“Do I try and be mysterious?”
My anxiety dictates me,
socially like a newborn giraffe trying to stand
for the first time; fumbling in the grass
as its knees knock together and splay out.
My hands clumsy;
my mind cluttered.
How can I call myself a writer…
If I cannot even write?