When a poet dreams

I've never had a command of the English language... which is why I decided to study Latin and Greek. I've always loved to write, But I've always found myself over critiquing And essentially destroying my own work. You see, someone else has already written it, And wrote it much more eloquently and elegant than I could dream to. I've always been a thinker But the more I study and read The more I see that I don't really have any original thoughts. I feel like Kevin Malone in that one episode of The Office when he decides to speak in fragmented clauses: Why use more words when less do trick? Why write words down when someone else did it better? But, I've come to realize, that while I may be clunky and cluttered and kind of disorganized, it's not about being in command of the language, or utilizing clever puns, or typing things that sound flowery and rich. I'm never going to write pretty or sound elegant. I'll never be able to dictate things in a way that causes the heart(s) of my reader(s) to flutter, or their minds to wander (except maybe off the page). But, it's about expressing myself. And no one can do that better than me. And there's no better medium than through a poem like this.