Sometimes I want your words.
Your gracefully arched
Not sure how the dots connect
And here I am
Using personal pronouns
Each poem describing something specific in my life
While you’ve got this art.
This art of high-browed
And I read what you’ve barely splashed across the page
And I’m blown away
Reading and rereading what you
Dreamed up on your coffee break.
But I can sit here
Hours upon the hours
And use clichés and tired phrase
And feel completely inadequate.
So sometimes I want your words.
Your words I know will be printed across
The minds of thousands of people one day.
Mine are mine.
They are what I dreamed up over those hours.
They are what I chose from my box of tools
To spread the sound.
To spread the noise that has been buzzing round my head.
Triggered by the events that I can feel.
The solid world in which I dwell.
So sometimes I may want your words
But I am proud of mine.
Proud of mine just as well.