Introspeculation on Matters of the Articulation of Compositions of Specific Sounds and the Authors Incapability To Do So

I cannot sing.

I know how to walk over broken glass,
I can make you smile without thinking,
I can score a touch in fencing in .5 seconds,
I can breathe...

But I cannot sing.

I can poem with the best,
I can last forever,
without rest,
I can drag my flaws into the light,
of the moon in that star-studded night...

But I cannot sing.

Because my voice was not meant to sing,
it was meant for other things,
namely...

Reciting the liturgy of being,
that is that feeling,
behind every smile,
I'm a veritable Smile-ophile,
because your's are like the aether,
bright, and filled with wonder,
and terrifying thunder,
and fear,
and fear,
and fearful joy...

I cannot sing.