I’m jealous of painters —
jealous of how with one color
they can express something it takes me lines
of rhymes and poems and prose
to even begin to express
I’m jealous of painters.

I’m jealous of sketchers —
jealous of how they move
their hand
and make something come into the world that’s never been seen
when it takes me pages to conjure
an image of something that’s always been.
I’m jealous of sketchers.

I’m jealous of artists —
jealous of the way their work
always seems to be understood by their audience
but no one can relate to mine.
When the hell did relatable become what my poetry was about?
I’m jealous of artists..