I'm not good at rhyming. I'm not good at poetry. I don't know what I'm talking about when I say that I write poems what I say is what I mean but I never mean what I'm saying when I say it again, I want to write about how when a lover has a dominant left hand and their other has a dominant right and they fit together like puzzle pieces. I want to write about the history that I could imagine of the carved names of the family written in the cement foundations of my home. I want to write about how the ants all form in a line and, there's always that one child who gives the ant an extra crumb I want to write about the homeless man on the side of the road that has a dog who he'll always feed before himself. There are so many little things in the world down to how the dew sits on the grass and the fog rolls across the city as my mom drives me to kindergarten after daylight savings. But I can't rhyme I can't write poetry. I'm not creative enough I can never be da Vinci I can never be Michaelangelo. I can just be me, and in such a big world being so small can sometimes be a relief because nobody will remember me or the names in the foundation of my home or the ants on that summer day, or the fog on the morning as I went to kindergarten. nothing will be remembered as I will remember it. My memories will die with me, but they were long enough to be cherished in my lifetime, and sometimes that's just enough to be OK
