For those who write poems
as easily as an athlete learns to ride a bike
I’m here to introduce you to the scrapes on my elbows
Without training wheels I stumble
upon my words. My flow, less like a downhill ride
the gears turning on their own
Instead, more like travels up a rigid, gravel road
imprinting bruises on my bottom from the seat below
Butt-hurt. Why can’t I do it?
The bubbling, boiling anger tracing down the pathway of my veins
after I’ve fallen off one
too many times. They tell me- use the emotion to build strength
in my poems. But perhaps
I was only meant to walk.