I Am Not Made For Poetry

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.

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