Am I Poetry Yet?

I’ve always wanted to be poetry

Wanted the expression of my experience to be praised

Or if not praised than impactful

Loaded words like loaded guns I wish I could shoot

But alas my writing wasn’t even a bullet.

I’ve always wanted the frost of my words

To hang on one’s tongue

Cold and damaging but beautiful and celebrated

But my pen stays in summer

And it melts as the ink diminishes.

I’ve always wanted to be as free verse

No boundaries or cage surrounding

A steady flow of my own comfortability

Yet my comfortability strangles me

With my own insecurity.

I’ve always wanted to be poetry

But I can’t be

And never will.