Am I Good Enough For Poetry, Is It Good Enough For Me?

Am I good enough, good enough to ask-

Do I have the right? The right to write and act like simple prose is so profound?

Do my words matter to anyone but me? Do they echo in the concaves of other peoples’ chests?

I look and read, and consume and consume and there is so much beauty in a word.

Tears paused at the edges of my eyes, and a deep, horrid ache at the base of my throat-

Does what I say matter? Does it have to matter to mean anything to me?

Poetry has always been an enigma, the rhyme the rhythm, the digging for meaning, the classics that hang heavy on my tongue but not on my mind.

Just words, and spaces of calm, and to a point I don’t think I’ll ever understand.

Pretty prose is what I have, vague questions, and ominous portents, and if they aren’t poetry,

I’m good enough for me at least.