I'Ve Tried Poem by Luke Harbur

Here's the problem:

Every time I write a piece of word
Down on note paper it turns out
NOT to convey
What I want to say.

Like the essay I sent in to Ms. Hansley
And she said,
'Sorry, but the syntax and message was not well said.'
I'm sorry, teacher, but every time you reprove me,
I just cannot intake what you're trying to prove me.

I know what I was meaning to say, meaning to show.
But I can't seem to make a light show
Out of the words
In my mind.

It's like a pot full of spices
but brain-fart ices cool it down.
Make it taste like Campbells and not homemade stew from Mom.
Teach me how I can caress the paper
Of the $300,000 degree from Yale.
Teach me how to touch the souls of the people
That will make out the REAL checks for my future.
I don't just want to keep sketching on this desk
all my hopes, dreams, and schemes
that will NOT become reality.
I want to make a normality
Out of ALL these fantasies.

So teach me how to plan
and make some A's out of these B's.
My dollar-store calendar
and cranial lobes are for lease.