This is inspiration.
This is blood surging through my veins
Faster than the speed of light;
Reminding me that I am still alive.
This is temporary hope;
Yes, I say temporary,
Because everything beautiful
turns out to be made of porcelain,
And I am clumsy.
Beauty shatters at my touch;
Leaving me with nothing.
Because I am an ugly duckling,
And I do not know the first thing
About being beautiful.
This is a song,
Written not to be sung.
It might as well be a poem;
That is who I am.
I am a poet,
And this is a poem.
Or it could be a letter;
To whom it is written is unclear.
Possibly the Great Receiver,
Who sits at her desk all day,
Reading poems disguised as letters.
But maybe this one will never be read;
Maybe it is destined to fall into a trashcan,
Beside bloody tissues and candy wrappers.
Its words will be blurred
by red and chocolate.
Or maybe it will slip under a bed,
Beside a young boy’s stash of Playboy.
Surely it cannot compete with
Glorified naked women.
Maybe this one is different.
Maybe I am different.
Maybe I am meant to change like this,
To feel hatred where love once was.
Maybe this is final.
Maybe this is it.
Maybe I am changed.

Or this might be temporary.
It usually is.