she beat upon the keyboard
and hailed it as poetry,
yet she pushed not enough meaning
into too many words.
she was Icarus in her intentions.
she flew too close to concrete
and reeled, diving into abstract.
and she still believed in her depth,
and she still hailed it as a work of art.
yet she knew her song fell to short,
truth stretching beyond her fingers.
she lost her intentions
for the sake of being lyrical.
it sounded good
but the strung words
held no meaning
other then their cellophane beauty.
a shrug.
the words just fit together
sounded right,
sounded like poetry
she had read in the big book,
had heard in the cold classrooms
from people who had pictures in their minds.
for they were Deadelus,
flying a clear path through the lyrical,
and she had no intent but to follow them.
she dipped to close
and crashed into the ocean.
and it hurt.
she was still off key,
she was winded,
pedestrian,
pointless,
yet it sounded so good.
the meaning was in her mind,
if the poem was stretched,
distorted,
forced to be something
other than a meaningless
string of words,
a pale copy in comparison.
yet still she remained,
mediocre in her poetry,
too boisterous in her proclamations
of her fragile ideals
and she knew it
and she denied it
and she drank in the passion
of those about her
but couldn't find her own
to put into the words
that others could read.