I aspire to be something I am not.

As life unfolds before me,

My mind is always whirling.

I dream of being something I am not.

Nothing I do appeases the need

Igniting itself inside me,

A slow flame at the end of its wick.

Reminding me of all the things

That I cannot accomplish.

The need is ever-kindling,

And it always begs for me

To be something that I am not.

An artist,

An author,

A great poet,

I am not.

My poetical heart begs

My transparent mind

To produce something,

Anything,

Of beauty.

But my mind is adrift

In a distant infinity.

I desperately long to be

What I am not.

The way the air needs to be breathed,

And love needs to be felt.

The way the earth needs to turn,

And the tide needs to pull.

The way the wind needs to blow,

And the rain needs to fall.

I need to be somebody,

But someone I am not.

Anything, I have yet to be.

Some days, my art is not enough.

Some days, my words are not enough.

The days go desolate,

And then I fear

That I, myself,

Am not enough.