feel like i don’t write poetry, just scribble in the margins of your masterpieces, unable to capture the same lightning in a bottle toy exude effortlessly

everyone can see me as the fraud i am, the fool playing at poet, sloppily painting in the stencils you lay on the page

my emotional tantrums are ripples compared to the tsunami you embody, tremors in the face of your richter destroying wake

how can i ever write the words worthy of perfection, when i am so deeply flawed, i am the sand while you are the colored glass i aspire to become

so take this hastily scrawled piece of prosaic prose, know i tried and failed, yet again, another piece of trash on the literary highway written in tears of ineffectual expression

standing in the shadow of the sun, hoping to drink in a portion of your talent, recycling bad metaphors and alliterative absence