I am not made for poetry.
My prose will not break down to pieces,
hit the rhythm just right, to hell with rhyme.
The abstract, the limerick, it does nothing for me.
Couplets annoy me and the words are never quite… so
how then do you measure the beatings of a human heart
that races as you approach?
I have no clever witticisms for the color of your eyes
or the color of my warming face. Is there a word for
the color of the space between us? I would call it a
lonely, empty, a translucent shade of gray
keeping a chaste space between our colorful lives.
What a rainbow we would make. Or a rich earthy
brown set for our seeds to grow.
What seeds would we lay? A love and future? A wild growth
of our shared lines of a madman and a lady with a pen.
Quite a garden for characters like us. What stories we could write.
But not poetry.
No, I was not built for poetry.