I know not

I know not of prose nor of the evocative nature of the common rose 

I know not the transformative nature of a poetic device,

my poetry has never been precise 

I know not of the structure of refrain or the serpentine bonds of art and pain 

but still I wish to write 

I have no characters inside my head that talk to me whilst I lay in bed: only worries and thoughts I wish to shred instead

No stories of other worlds fall and rest on my tongue, waiting to be sung 

my mind holds no imagery—no weeping willows that whisper wonders of what I can’t see

no women in stained glass windows tell me sacred stories that only ink could keep 

but still I wish to write 

I have no story to be told, no emotions I could pull and mold into beauty from the shrapnel of my heart, lest I make a fatal cut

I do not have it within me to scrutinize pain for prose nor do I live in thoughts to later compose 

In heartbreak I cannot see the promise of someday or potential wordplay 

but still I wish to write 

What a tragedy it is to ache to write but never get it quite right 

despite knowing that only the promise of a perfect story sets your soul alight 

For I read of a writer's mind and the intricacy of its design 

But I must be of a different kind

colorblind to the shades of life with which writers paint a pretty phrase and frame of mind

all my idols had childhood titles that they wrote for survival,

sprawls of black ink on walls that they reference in interviews decades later 

saying from that moment in the hall

they knew writing was their call 

I search and search but no words grow from my childhood home to pluck and make into a poem

Upon my call, the walls are silent

they disowned me long ago

But still I wish to write. 

So I put pen to paper and write my own destiny

In spite of everything, 

I will write.