The Poem I Couldn’t Write.
The poem I couldn’t write outlined all the reasons why I left you. It stated them, as clear as crystalline water, in simple language that even the slowest of thinkers could understand. It made me seem completely justified, entirely in the right. Certainly not crazy. Certainly not selfish.
The poem I couldn’t write explained to all of my past teachers and professors why I didn’t get As in their classes. It told them that I payed attention and tried my hardest, but despite my best efforts came to realize that I wasn’t as smart as I had once been told. I was certainly not a genius. Certainly not well above average.
The poem I couldn’t write contained an apology for my father. It said that I was genuinely sorry for not living up to his expectations, that I recognized it was my fault that not one, but both of his children had failed to size up. We were certainly not martyrs. Certainly not anything great.
The poem I couldn’t write was powerful, beautiful, a stunning work of magnificent art. It moved every reader to places beyond the furthest mountain ridge and brought about real tears.
The poem I couldn’t write held every one of my most poignant thoughts in perfectly pinned language.
The poem I couldn’t write was written by someone else.
