I lay in bed, my covers pulled all the way up to my chin because I get cold easily, and I stare for what seems like ages at the cobwebs on our ceiling. I try to be very still so I don't wake anyone. But it's hard. While all these thoughts storm around my head. Crashing into each other until I feel like I'm about to explode.

Usually the later it gets, the darker my thoughts become.

Maybe dark isn't the right word. Introspective, maybe.

There are two kinds of conversations I have with myself in the early hours of the morning: 1) deep meaningful insights about life, love, and the universe; 2) not so meaningful ones.

Tonight is the not so meaningful one.

I read some exquisitely beautiful poetry this evening. Some really fine morsels of literature. Crushingly eloquent. Damn near took my breath away.

And I started to wish that I could do that. Sculpt words like poets do. Make my syllables weave and bend into spectacular shapes and sizes at my will.

Good poetry always reminds me of the Cirque de Soleil. If you've never seen it - well, you're missing out. Its beauty is subtle and overwhelming all at the same time. It creeps up on you until - suddenly - you realize you're in the midst of something extraordinary. You're watching beauty in its rawest form. Bleeding and Open. Right there in front of your eyes. And you marvel that something this divine could be created by mere human beings.

Now, that's good poetry.

I would say I admire poets .. but I don't. I don't really admire talents because ... well .. they're talents. They come easily. I might admire the hard work or determination to develop the talent but the gift itself - it's a necessity for the gifted. They do it because they enjoy it. It's more selfishly motivated than anything else.

Nope, I envy them. Straight up. How poets can capture a moment and suspend it in mid air. How they carve out each tiny second and place it before you like an offering.

God, I envy that.

For me, I always write with a point. Even when I don't mean to. I am innately structured. Jake always tells me my greeting cards read like a thesis paper. And, honestly, they do. Words are only tools for me to get across my ideas. The most important thing for me is the message. Everything else is gravy. So I write very simply. Very clear and directed. My greatest strength is the ability to take complex concepts and dillute them into their most elemental components.

This is provided, of course, that I actually understand the concept to begin with. Which isn't always the case.

I want you to hear and understand what I say. I want you to think with me because you have wondrous minds within you. You are elegant creations brimming with untold potential.

You have all the answers. All you have to do is ask yourself the right questions.

I crave that. The wonder inside of people.

I've always understood that my writing style reads like a VCR manual. I'm not complaining. It's an effective way to communicate. I could have a worse lot in life. I could have no arms.

But, that doesn't mean that sometimes I wish ... I guess, I wish to be something different.

I'm probably no different than everyone else. The grass is always greener and all.

Poetry is my sore spot. Tried it for awhile until I realized I sucked. Big time. This ephiphany came after I started dating an absurdly great poet. One look at his work and I could never take myself seriously again.

So I stopped writing.

Yes, yes. I know, I shouldn't have. Writing should be for the writer and not the audience. And all that jazz. But, truthfully, it became painful to write. I had lost my innocence. In the face of greatness, my mediocrity was glaring.

Of course, poetry isn't the only thing I envy. But it's what I envy tonight. And I hate that feeling.

Because to envy something or someone means to regret that you aren't like them. To want what they have because what you have doesn't measure up.

And that just pisses me off.

I'm angry at myself for feeling this way. And for, even momentarily, forgeting that, just like you, I have a wondrous mind within me. I am an elegant creature brimming with untold potential.

It's hard, sometimes. To believe in yourself. To not see different as inferior.

Really hard.

But not impossible.

So, I guess I'll go up to bed again. Where it's much warmer than this cold basement. And snuggle next to my sleeping husband and snoring cat. And forget about all this nonsense for awhile.

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