Envious
I want to write a poem;
I crave it so badly that I even call myself a poet.
Oh, how I dream about words carelessly
and ceaselessly flowing down on papers,
The kind of stanzas that no one will understand
but still, read on with awe;
How I wish I could compose with rhymes so clear
and the rhythm so captivating,
Beautifully scribbled and incontestable.
Call this a poem if you would,
But it doesn't rhyme and you'll need no dictionary.
I'm working on it and I'll write again tomorrow,
Maybe worse or maybe better.
The contest goes on and I still envy the poets
But once upon a verse; I, too, will be one.
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