In my mind are the words to solve the most complex riddles,
the most perplexing questions.
If only I could find a way to arrange them in some legible sense.
Yes,
intense,
but nonetheless I struggle.
Bumbling fool with my words.
Its absurd how I manage to mangle the simplest terms.
Fumbling round and about in a daze,
as if seeking an exit to a literal maze.

I am not a writer.
Nor am I a muse.
My mind full of knowledge and words I cant use.
How I long to inspire the poet in you,
and prove to you writing is just something I do.
But I struggle and ponder just why is it that I
feel that using that title would be kin to a lie?

I seek and I scramble for words that aren't there,
till I'm blue in the face and I'm pulling out hair.
I know there's a word that I wanted to use,
and I think that I thought it but after review,
to decide to seduce you with words you cant see
would be rather disdainful and callous of me.

I desire to arm you in a literal sense.
Instigate composition,
at my wisdom's expense.
My vast recollections and grammatical airs,
ineffectually futile like falling upstairs.
Ironically helping is all that I wish.
Yet I cant seem to exclude these thoughts and dismiss
the fact that I am not a writer,
nor am I a muse.
The words simply taunt me,
and end up misused.