Tomorrow Is Not Today

i guess when i sit here, i expect great words to drip
from my mind and rush to form something extravagant
and great. i wonder how the letters i squish together,
to create statements, are actually perceived.

i'm always thinking my grammar is never quite right
and i put commas in every illegal place.
i wonder if everyone is as finicky as me, and if they
look past my words to tackle my mistakes.

i just want to be a brilliant writer.
but i'm not sure that i'm even slightly close to it.
my arms are always stretched out, fingers reaching for perfection relentlessly.
at the same time, my mind is always reminding me that there is no such thing.

my heart wants to pour out hot gossip going on between my soul and intellect.
spill it like fresh blood on the page where my art is born.
i don't know who or what it is that gets my heart cranking but it is, indeed.
it's gonna blow and i know it.
splashing emotions and secrets across a screen
only to wipe them all up and take the right back in
like they had never been sprawled out all over the page.

i feel different. i think i want something more. i don't care Whos reading.
i'm piercing through yet another slick encasement and emerging as something more brisk, more honest.
i'm not sure what it is yet. but its intriguing and i like it.