I don't want to always write colored

My words aren't always colored, in everything but black

My reality is always colored, but that doesn't mean I can't sing

of the hills, the river bank, the beautiful full moon beaming

an indiscriminate light onto my face, no cheese wheel here

And honestly I sometimes find a solace in its bold faced lie

One I refuse to admit, but sometimes I indulge in when I'm tired

of constantly being upset over a meter that doesn't conform to my intended line 

Must I write a sonnet about love? Will you accept me with a vilanelle about loss?

I don't know what you want me to write. So I'll write this.

I can't always use words the way I want. They're slippery. 

I can't always create a pretty scenery on command. 

I can't imagine a fresh bed of snow in which I'll write a poem, just to have the harsh win wipe it away 

Nor is there clay from the Amazon at hand, ready to be crafted into a monument, slowly eroding. 

Shakespeare used sand. Lake sand doesn't work as well. 

Perhaps we'll go on a long car ride in the cold winter, and I'll write the poem in a fogged up mirror. 

Not quite pretty, but we can all recall times as a kid where you'd adorn the it with your initials. 

Screaming out to those on the outside, I'm here. And the heat washes it away. 

There isn't a repertoire of beautiful images I have for you. I'm sorry

But I offer you up this poem as a token of my appreciation. 

And hopefully one day you'll realize that my words are sputtered out by a boy who was too worried about      the world liking him, that he forgot to be genuine  

Prose and Poesy are one in the same, words on a wrinkled page. 

Still you'll like this poem, right?