I am not a writer.

I cannot spin you tales of woe and sorrow,

of bliss and affection.

My words do not dance across the page

in the delicious frenzy of life,

but instead sit rusted and beaten

upon the cold linoleum,

trapped in your prisons of ABAB

and five paragraph essays,

ensnared in the deepest reaches of

my imagination

with no fluent

escape.