Borrowed start and end by Kody Cayson

I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,

I don’t hate you as if you were a bush of thorns, black,

Who is the you?

I can’t think of who to write to.

“Know your audience”, I have always been told,

but how do I know my audience will read it?

Sitting in a hard plastic chair my hand is forced,

My voice is slow to start like a car in the dead of winter.

My mind races with anything but poetry.

Clouds out the window are relatable,

The clouds in my head are hiding the brightness.

I’ve stalled here. Knowing that people will read this

Aloud from my mouth, this may have censored my thoughts,

Taken away my freedom of writing, a fear to be judged.

This fear is not mine to share alone.

I know many have this same thought, the feeling is comforting.

Comforting to be the same? That doesn’t seem right.

I want to be different, to be special, be unique.

I want to be the best at anything under the universal sun.