One day I will be able to write the beautiful poem

I have always longed to write.

I will no longer squeeze my brain dry,

only to churn out a

single,

pathetic,

cliched line,

desperately trying to write something, anything,

on the piece of paper sitting hopelessly on my desk,

light, blank and waiting

to be painted with words, loving as Romeo and Juliet.

 

One day I will no longer find myself

chronically at a lack of words,

throwing similes and metaphors at the paper

to see what sticks;

bombarding the sheet with symbolism,

classical allusions to some distant literary character,

a half- hearted attempt to distract you from noticing

the shocking banality of my poem

about an experience most passionate, eloquent and expressive.

 

For one day I will find myself scrambling

for pens and papers at the escritoire,

Give me paintbrushes, instruments, the stage and all.

Like a child’s first breath, I gasp for air,

like a mechanism fuelling the next,

before I even settle at my chair,

I watch my hand move,

uncontrollably, yet naturally,

left to right, left to right,

the ink travelling seamlessly across

the cream- coloured paper,

leaving a stanza of adjectives the world has never seen before.

 

Because one day I will no longer write about the many loves

I observe from a distance that pass me by as my only muse;

The ones on trains, in doorways,

parks, school hallways.

One day I will know love other than in books,

the Darcys and Elizabeths,

Gatsbys and Daisys;

One day I will know love other than from afar,

than from the sidelines,

than from the red roped barriers in museums as a mere observer.

 

One day I will know love

so vivid, so touchable,

completely ours and personal,

that I no longer have to write from imagination.

One day all I want to write will be personified

that there will be no need for ideation.

I will just tell it as it is,

the truth, an illustration of a reality too dreamlike to be true,

all words falling easily into place

just by the meeting of the eyes,

a touch at the waist,

a most ardent kiss.

 

One day I will be able to write the beautiful poem

I have always longed to write.

I will write it in the utmost sensory detail,

unashamedly written, clear and bold,

no longer obscured behind

complicated analogies and lying hyperboles,

one day we will be the beautiful poem

I have always longed to write.