i wish that i could be gentler
(not quieter, i am already too quiet)
a less SHARP type of person
and that with this came more beautiful poetry
more beautiful than what i write now

i wish that the words that bled from my paper cut scarred fingers were not harsh scarlet
but hazy sunset oranges and pinks
and held the same types of promises

i wish that my writings would be worthy of inhabiting strangers’ heads
that such residencies would be welcomed and cherished
smooth gossamer
gently hanging on bone walls
allotted their own little niches

i wish that i was satisfied
with my style of poetry
that i could proudly claim it as my own
rather than want to emulate others

i wish that every word I ever wrote
held a world of imagery and profound thought

i wish to write like who i am not

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