just another poem into the endless abyss
about reading amazing poetry
that's written by someone who's clearly
better at this than me
that makes me feel inconsequential.
i read words that flow like they
were born on an artist's tongue
and crafted by the caresses of a blue moon sky
lines that shudder and bleed into one another,
poetry that's ALIVE
and I look at the carcasses that I shape
and continue sadly on with my deceased writing,
the words heavy and quick,
the rhythm a beat among a horse's hooves.
its like trying to paint a star upon the globe,
like searching the dead sea
for a tin can.
my poetry just can't compare,
so why do I even try?