0 min read

The Writer’s Woe

I want to see vowels jump over consonants.

Their words are golden.
Shimmering—loud in its splendor.
Letters that fit
like old continents before they drifted.

I want my letters to arrange itself.
See vowels jump over consonants
and settle between the majority.
Knowing its place, saying:
This is where I belong.

But somehow it falls short.
The words don’t shine.
Fragmented sentences that were neither out of place
or in place.

I read the ink on their pages again
(the arches of Garamond a sanctuary)
and weep.

For I can never call myself a writer
when their words sink so deeply into me
while mine only scratches the surface
of your eyes.