I sit here on my desk. Writing my stories and all of my poems. Trying to do my best To make the piece of writing wholesome. That’s when I drop the pen and my eyes start to close. I sit and I think, knowing that I froze. Just when? The question that I ask. My hand holds my pen. My thoughts are forever my mask. The curiosity took the best of me Oh, the dream is to be. When will I be the painting? Instead of the painter. When will my fingers stop to sting? When will I not be the creator? When will I be the one to get the picture? When will I be the muse? Instead of the poet. When will I be the one someone will choose? The one to keep my heart in your locket. One that will make me fall on my knees One that will make me go outside to breathe. When will I be the creation? Instead of the ceramist. On that you’ll give in appreciation. And someone will give it to me and insist Just someone please try Give me the art just to make me cry. When will I be the photo? Instead of the photographer. Someone to stay with me in the shadow. As you take the photo of me. Will you truly remember me? When? A question I thought from the start. Something I wished would happen I just wish I were the art. As I still sit here. And continue to make my own. I sit and wonder Why am I alone?
Poet's note: This is a poem for anyone who created something and dreamed to be the person to get it <3333 I'm with you as well. (Btw I'm now going to be doing a poet's note for every poem. From now on.)
