I Write in Metaphors?

I am unable to write in metaphors. Talk in rhyme. I am no Shakespeare. My simplicity is a crime. My pain is trivial unless my heart is wheezing sighs and pen is bleeding cries. My journey is inappreciable. I walk. They fly. My palate is an amateur. It confuses croquembouche with a creature. My eyes are more able than me. Brown as mahogany. Black as ebony. Green as emeralds. They see color in comparisons, I just see a tree. My ears cleverly detect a drop in beat and spike in chords. They pity me when I fall for a broad. My hands feel textures. Smooth as silk. Rough as roads. Hard as rocks. Then, why am I incapable to empathize with a flock? Rejected, I cried. I tried.

Later, I reflected. I accepted. I am un-hewn. You are refined. I accept your sandpaper, unless it meddles with my designs. I might be the square in your round hole. You are merely a body. I am the soul. I have a fire burning bright. Ready to take flight. You say I am simple, plain as day. I say I am potential to your hay. You write in metaphors and talk in rhyme but you are still inadequate and your language a mime. I am ready to be devoured. Yet, you can never consume me. Bring it on!!! I welcome criticism to my sublime.