I wish I were a dancer

with her perfect, pointed toes

and a dress that

flies

with her

or an artist

who turns every white canvas

into adventures

and beauty

and pain

just with her hands

or a singer

belting out agony

or joy or confusion

and forming all those

meddled feelings and

experiences

into something beautiful.

I wish I weren't just

me,

left with my emotions

and life

and nothing to

make of it,

I wish I had a

shoe

or brush

or voice

that could express it all,

or a viola that could

crone out what I want to say,

but no,

maybe the world will never

know my pain,

or hear my joy,

or see my strife,

and it's just me

and my bursting heart

alone.

Maybe I wasn't meant to be

a songbird,

but a raven instead.

Maybe I wasn't made

to be understood,

but only

to

understand.