I wish I could be a peice of poetry,

my vulnerabilities written on a page,

for people to read as my shames turn to beauty,

transfixed by the stanza in each framed stage.

Despair and longing turn to duties crushing ache,

my pains would become heartachingly real,

my mind described as the moon in the suns wake,

Where poetry makes horrible things have a ghastly appeal.

To be a poem is what I hunger for,

and now I fear I will forever be at war.