To Be Classic
I bear false witness to poetic success,
Burning book bindings in the nervous ashes of my stomach,
My artistry has fled from me at such gentle request,
and I feel knots of nerves begin to form.
"Write!" says the fabled voices of classics past gone,
I hear them call and I grasp for them with hands weak with typing,
Holding steadfast in the waves of an oncoming change,
and glimpse the slow-beating hearts in a sea of electricity.
I bury my feet in the first words of a thousand books,
Grasp at coral reefs made of long, rhyming stanzas,
and attempt to haul myself up to clouds of success,
To acheive a dream they tell me that I cannot.
And yet, the voices of the past whisper,
"yes you can",
through their dead words hidden in between the lines,
of their old classic literature.
I feel poems form inside my soul.