Words are an art that I've yet to master.
When I try to speak they cease at my throat,
taunting me with their existence.
They taste like cough syrup,
with the consistency of peanut butter,
and suddenly I can't breathe.
I choke on all of my poetic eloquence and
speak in feeble terms
because its all I can manage.
I continue to trip over the weak words
because my brain works too fast for my mouth to follow.
My brain begs me to say what it's really thinking
but it stops at my mouth,
and cause me to have trouble breathing.
I love words so much but all they seem to do is fail me.
Why can't I just be a poet who can face her family,
who can look at them and spill out sentences like oceans?
because what is a poet without her words?
Nothing.
Is she even a poet?
