I want to write poetry.

I just want to.

I need to.

My fingers itching to grasp my pencil, scratching words out and out and out to such a mediocre beauty.

Right now, this minute, this second, and second and millisecond,

I just want to write.

Instead of meaningless, completely meaningful, irrelevant, useless, brief conversational answers.

Which answer such idiotic, philosophical, beautiful, thinking questions.

I want to be a poet.

I don’t want to be a poet.

I want to be more and utterly more, overwhelmingly more than I can ever be.

I procrastinate my school work waiting under my hands that write.

I procrastinate never when it comes to the ruled paper I don’t follow.

And I’ve come to my comfort,

The one I seem to not have mastered,

Nor find talent in.