Falling In Love Is Easy, Dealing With It Isn't

Words Of A Poet

Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock.

The constant ticking of the clock was usually soothing as it was a constant, now it served as a frustrating distraction. With a flick of my wrist, it broke. No one cared for it anyway.

Rubbing my face through the disappointment of this morning didn't help as I wondered why words were absent from my mind. Every language in the world seemed to be extracted from my mind. Enochian included.

This needed to be addressed, the sorrow in his eyes, the obvious comparison to others and ridiculous belief he isn't enough, I hated seeing it. If one of us didn't hold up to the other it was me, I am not enough, Sam is well worth more than I ever will be.

Being this distracted almost made me miss the soft footsteps that were Jack joining me.

He came behind me with a hug, and I could tell he was expecting one from both Sam and me.

"Hey, Father. Where's Dad?" It was unusual for Sam and me to be separated since we've confessed our feelings for each other. Something that didn't come to my attention until I realized how much I currently missed him.

I patted Jack's arm, looked at him and set my pen, paper aside. "He's on a beer run. At least that's what he told Dean, I believe he's also getting some vegetables since your recent intake on candy has increased. Did Dean sneak you that candy?" I asked pointing to where he attempted to hide a bag of nougat. The flush on his face told me enough. I'll let Sam deal with Dean.

"No... So what are you doing?" Whether or not he's biologically mine, he lies terribly like me.

I handed him the rough drafts I had started but couldn't finish. None of them felt true, no matter how beautiful they sounded. "Poetry. From sonnets, odes, lyric, free verse, rhymed, to ballads. None of them are what I want." I sighed and looked at the mess surrounding me. Why was this task so difficult?

"I don't understand, they're well written. What's the problem?"

"That's the problem. They're all well written but meaningless. They don't capture how I really feel about Sam. No fourteen lines with ten syllables in each line are going to get all my emotions for him." Defeated and slumped in my chair, I wanted to cry. The only thing that kept my head up was the hand the was hiding my face. Why is this so difficult?

Jack was staring at me before he sat down next to me. "Then don't."

I looked up surprised, "Don't what?" He gestured to the poetry.

"Don't write a sonnet or a ballad, write from the heart. Isn't that what it's about? Not the form but the meaning?" He asked hands on the table, I nodded. Have I gone about this all wrong?

"Thank you, Jack. I think I got an idea." The pen I grew a hatred for as well as the paper, I apologized as I began to write.

My frustrations dissipated as the words filled my paper. I would describe it as talking rather than writing, I did mutter through parts where I became beat until I changed tactics.

Hours flew by as I wrote and rewrote this poem, it was vulnerable. Perhaps it didn't have the imagery or repetitive nature as the others before; however, the honesty it held outdid any flow from the other poems before.

In the end, at the last line, I stared. I've changed it twenty times already. I wasn't sure if it was my attempt at procrastination or if I simply didn't like it.

Sam had checked in with me when he got back hours ago, I begged him to not look quite yet. He's managed to keep to his promise even though I've seen him pop in to see if I had finished.