Writer's Lament

It is one thirty in the morning and I am feeling quite creative.

I've had a long day,

long morning, long evening;

full of many unusual happenings,

all which add to the long list

of the oodles of things I could be writing about,

but I'm not sure how to start them.


I could spend hours writing metaphors

about the paleness of my complexion,

the auburn in my hair, and how it reflects

the feelings in my brain when I think about

all the people that I love, and would like to love,

but I'm not sure how to love them.


I could love the boy I met last week,

who I'm quite sure might like to love

the boy that I've loved for two years

who sings, and smirks, and is not very fond of

my best friend, who I used to love,

and has many friends I'd like to talk to,

but I'm not sure how to approach them.


I would love to approach many people I've seen,

Not strangers, not friends, just acquaintances;

I love to learn things,

about people, about feelings,

much like the ones that I feel myself,

but I'm not sure how to express them.


I'd express my happiness toward how I always

smile now when I think about that boy

and my anger toward how I do not

know how to start conversations or friendships

and how I'd love to write stories about these feelings,

but I'm not sure how to start them.