I want to be a poet,
Studied like Keats and Shakespeare,
For my writings to invoke love, sadness and fear,
For classrooms to be filled with my spilled words,
More exciting stuff than multiplication and surds,
For entire essays written about my verbalisation of life,
To let them know my truest pains and strife,
So people know how I feel about ‘her’,
For them to learn, to me, her identity is a blur,
To make my perfect family proud,
To have the world to know ‘Jack Youd’

Or am I just a lonely poet,
Writing words never to be read, embraced and felt,
All my words, wisdom and woes,
And yet people will never know it.

So, I wrote a poem for you,
Because, like always, you were playing on my mind,
Refreshing as cold mornings, grass littered in dew,
You are always smiling and kind,

I spoke to a God I don’t believe in with tearful prayer,
Asking for you to love me, kiss me, play with my hair,
I know, to you, I haven’t been fair,
But I look at the space in my bed and just wish you were there.