I envy poets.

I envy the way

That they can express

Their sorrows and joys

As separate

But equal. 

I envy that they mustn't

Be flowery or concise

When swirling two opposites

Into an intertwined truth

Of pure white light

To move and resonate.

I envy the way that I cannot

Be like them.

The romantic inside cannot

Communicate after the years and years

of only logic and only suppressed feelings 

My consciousness and freedom

Are weighed down by white emptiness.

I read poetry often now

To find a deeper introspection

My scarred soul couldn’t have concluded

And to indulge in the language of the

Hurt and loved.

I read poems that so vividly paint pictures

And masterfully combine elements of 

Persimmons with pipettes

And motherboards with Shostakovich

And wonder why I too cannot fall into a place

Of meta connection, of flowery fullness.

My English teacher can see through me like tissue paper.

She knows I don’t speak the truth in my style.

She knows I spend hours deleting and deleting and fluffing up

Crude sentences into artificial poppies.

She urges me stop and for once, just once, use my true voice

But when I try-- I cannot find it in the depths of nothingness.

All I find is my white hot envy for poets

How they can heal and find themselves

By connecting the pieces of their life puzzles

With a Bic pen and a Dollar Store moleskine.

I struggle to connect the bounds

Of myself into an entity.

Hockey does not flow into biracial

As violin does not flow into math

I don’t fit with her

And she doesn’t fit with me.

Together we are white emptiness.