Not poetry

What I want and what I have have always been two different things, even when I didn't know it. And it hasn't been shit like "I want a Honda but I have a Chevy," (although that happened, too, I just didn't mind because at least I had a vehicle) no, it's been more profound. Makes me wonder who I pissed off in a previous life. I'm sorry already! Can I catch a break just once?!

Everyone I've ever cared about has always lived in a different state, and even now that I'm living with a friend, there's someone I'd rather be with a thousand miles away (Blue, no offense, love). There are four places I can live in the U.S., none of them any closer to where I want to be, some of them as far as I can go and still stay in the continental. I keep telling myself that life just isn't meant to be fair, this is normal, this is basic shit. And yet...

I've ripped myself apart for everyone I've known, except one, at least once. Should I have to sacrifice like that? Should I have to be broken?

For over a month I thought I'd been abandoned by the only person I haven't changed to please. I'm not sure I can describe what a blow to my confidence that was, or the thoughts that haunted me throughout that time. I'm sick, I'm so fucked up, I'm wrong, I'm worthless, I should have known better. In a funny twist of fate, I hadn't been abandoned, I'd been treated to a taste of something I used to do: a withdrawal from society into my own personal hell. I was broken of it with a dose of someone else's selfishness, but that's another story.

And so I dip my pencil in the water and move on...

I took a walk today under a grey sky with tiny speckles of rain falling on my face. It was decently chill, a pleasant surprise. I meant to write some poems, and did indeed write one, but it was nothing worth sharing; a waste of paper. I haven't managed to write anything exceedingly brilliant in quite a while, not since the night I read a friend's poem and wrote a frenzied response (a highly edited version made it on here, one not written in the heat of the moment). Perhaps I shouldn't push it, maybe beg my muse to speak with me, maybe search for a new one.

I showed a friend a drawing of mine recently. It was a practice sketch of the female form. I've been trying very hard to teach myself to draw better, and while I'm not the worst out there *coughthirdgraderscough*, I'm certainly not an artist. I enjoy drawing, but it will never be anything more than a hobby of mine, and not even one that I do very often. Anyway, I asked for some pointers on how to make it better and my friend said, "Just draw what you see."

But I see words. I see everything as a poem or a story. On my walk, I saw beautiful things that I instantly started crafting a verse for, or turned a quick phrase to capture, much like snapping a photograph. No artist am I, merely a wandering poet.