I am no poet by nature and I struggle with words

Stuttering. Stammering. My mind pokes around in an empty basket

For velvet fruit that hints at a whimsical world

In retrospect, would I have lived a fantasy

if I were an eloquent girl?

My tongue is a spindle for the simple heart’s rant

Tumbling. Revealing. Not a breath can break its flow

Yet I imagine sparkle but my writing is bland

I wonder; would my fingers bleed liquid star dust

if I had an eloquent hand?

My passion is like the lone weed in the rocks

Unforeseen. Unfazed. Uncertain about standing its ground

Within my gravel nerves chiseled and cracked by time

I speculate; would I quench its sands like an oasis

if I had an eloquent mind?

Yet I don’t muse over shortcomings when the rain comes around

Silver. Speckled. Like heaven crying for all that we lack