Words, words, words..

They’re only thoughts caught in the act

And imprisoned on paper.

But poetry…

Poetry is catching the most fleeting,

Most transient feelings,

And translating them, piece by piece,

Into a language that is sensible to outsiders.

People think poets are born to do this,

That they find it easy to write.

But little do they know how we struggle

How the words can get away

And how the thoughts slip,

The mind forgets,

And blocks it out.

How feelings are never clear,

And the words for them aren’t always there,

And everything gets lost in translation,

Which leads to frustration,

Because I can’t write words that capture what I feel for you.