Amanda Springer lives and writes in Kearny, New Jersey.

I cannot be a poet. 
By Amanda Springer

I cannot be a poet.

My suffering is incomparable
to the subjects of the greats many years before.
My love
did not expire by an empty vial
nor has it left my unrequited love in vain.
If my suffering is miniscule,
how can my poetry be profound?
The half-thought scribbles
lay tucked away, hidden from the sun.
Only
the moon can recite the script that smears purple
on the white lined pages.
How deep a poet must be!
Like challenger deep unearthed in the Marianas Trench.
And I?
I am a newly hatched fish in a crystal bowl
illuminated by Tycho,
that very well could be my Mariana Trench.
But,
I lack the gills,
the depth perception,
and I am just as confined by the morning sun as the fish is confined to an open bowl.