The World

Someone once told me that a poet takes something beautiful and describes it, thereby taking away the very thing that makes it beautiful. I stopped writing poetry after that, my publisher kept calling, but nothing got sent. I appreciate beauty now, more so than ever before, but when I put pen to paper I feel I am betraying all that is beautiful. I know I could never fully capture a description of anything beautiful, so anything I write could not do justice. If I can't write something great, what is the point of writing at all? People, the smallest people can achieve the greatest things, but I am just not one of them. How does one go on knowing they will never be good enough? You have to please yourself before you can please anyone else or there's no point. I don't think I'll ever be satisfied with anything, perhaps I'm not meant to be. I want my words to come straight from the heart, to be pure, but nothing is pure anymore not even water. I feel the world expand before me and I keep getting smaller. What's it all mean? I look through my windows every day and see a world I will never know, I wonder if people look at me with those same thoughts. We all have many faults, each day I think I acquire a new one. Now I know my main fault and there's really nothing I can do about it. I have too many dreams and only one life to live.
I want the world.