Lament of an Inadequate Romantic

I once fancied myself a poet
with a poet's eyes, a poet's mind,
a poet's heart, a poet's soul,
a poet's voice.
But all I had
was a poet's wishful thinking.
My poet's eyes saw only
myself,
transformed only
myself
into something that was not.
I see the world in worn-out phrases,
in well-tried words, in standard descriptions,
in primary colors and geometric shapes.
I see the world Used.
Just a tinge of romanticism,
just a hint of changing light and shadow.
All else is solid.
Real.
Ordinary.
Except with excessive enthusiasm.
But I would like to see the sun
in terms of jade,
the ocean
in terms of lilies,
the forest
in terms of familial affection.
But I see a tree in terms of branches, a face in terms of skin, a wall in terms of brick, etc. etc. etc. etc.
You've heard it before.
The other world of deeper dimension
appears to me in half-glimpses
and through a lens of words and colors
not my own,
a song
I did not write.
And I am wet-eyed, heart-full, but
empty-handed,
silent-voiced,
soul incomplete.