This seems nearly too heretical to divulge in a poem

But simply put, I don't live to write

Random words don't course through my veins

Waiting to be put in their place

My mind isn't lithe enough

To deftly choose exactly the right phrasings

My body was not meant to express

itself at a poetry slam 

My face won't bear the expression

That matches the desired emotion

The thing is, I wasn't meant to write

And that's why, simply put,

I will never get enough.

I can't consume enough of this drug

This naieve supposition that my words

Could be more than words

That they could mean something

To someone other than myself.

That's why I write.

Because as I write I can't help but feel that 

Somewhere, I'm good enough.