The Poet

There is so much poetry
running through my veins
screaming for attention
exclaiming,
write me
write me
write me down!
And so I write
I write
I write them down
but still silence envelops me like a blanket wrapped around a newborn child
or the arms of a lover as he embraces the other
I try and still don’t succeed
I cannot grasp the words as if they were a feather to wish upon yet relentlessly blown away by the wind
or dust particles being caught in between chopsticks
I have nothing left to say
I cannot
I cannot write down
the poetry running through my veins