four years later and i'm dreaming of italian summers,
rehearsing byron,
practicing pitch, memorizing inflection,
perfecting tone and taming the nerves that
send shivers of steel along my spine
four years later, i'm still hearing your voice in my head.
and i'm not quite the poet you imagined i'd be
i string together awkward arrangements,
fumble with unnatural phrasing
try to lose myself under formindable, erratic words
maybe that's the poet we expected of me.
the feelings you left with me
grumble and collide on paper for you--
a silent soul-parade stumbles by
beneath our critical, demanding eyes.
four years and i'm promising anew
to my future and your ghost,
my voice was made for lyrics and prose
my eyes dart effortlessly over the phrasing of the greats
i lend life to dying rhymes.
we thought by now i'd have figured this out
in the next four years, i'll realize
though i could not choose the gift you gave
i have the power to shape it
