WRITER’S ENVY

I wish I could write like you
in the form
that’s award-winning
because I’m feeling
everything you’re saying
and it’s moving me in a way
I wish I could move myself.

If my teeth
bit wood into crescent depressions
yours
are so used to cutting
if my tongue
moved rapid fire in the lyrical marathon
yours
is so used to running
if my hands
were steady in the art of preforming
thought form autopsy
then
would I mean something
to myself?

See, I’m having trouble discerning
if my problem is just the butchering
of pause and pacing
and disordered rhyming
of I-N-G
or if it’s that the things I’m thinking
are insignificant
for communicating
’cause everything I’m writing
it feels like journal space I’m wasting
like valuable advertising I’m stealing
when I could be a billboard praising
your way of thinking
instead.

But then…
that’d make me…
something that was just competing
subpar
in your way of thinking
and not a showcase of
my unique split-soul screeching
and indecisive self-suspicion
when somewhere
they’re saying
that old adage of motivation
“The only person you can be
is yourself.”
Yeah
that’s solid advice
but see
I’m always wondering if myself
is something I really
want to be?

Now look
what was once
just a conundrum of incompetence
that spiraled into
a crisis of identity
is now something
like poetry
but truthfully
it’s not something I’d want to read.
All I’m doing is streaming
one way of thinking
like a midnight TV stuck on static
very average
as you spin circles of
mathematic precision
that form universal emotion
into a beauty
everyone’s sure they’ve never felt
in this way
before.
It’s a sight to behold
for sure.

But if people like me
didn’t feel inadequate
next to people like you
would you wind up just being average
too?
I guess there’s a use for me after all
and that’s an adage I can get behind.

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