This is not a poem

So.... 
originally I had started a blog to "explore different genres of writing in order to facilitate my growth as a writer" e.g. stream of conscious, short stories, personal reflection, etc.
basically, I wanted to write something a little more concrete than my usual run-of-the-mill poetry that I always fall back on. I thought a blog would be a healthy space to explore and play with words in a new way. It would also force me to write more often.
I was looking for a type of writing that was casual: "diary-esque" reader-friendly, something that I could look back on with a quick glance and say,"oh I remember that day perfectly" or "wow, I wrote a great essay about that on January 4th"
Essentially, I was trying to create a writing space that was not poetry related. I don't have a problem with poetry. It's just
...all I do. all the time
 I wanted to branch out. understandable, right? I'm a nineteen-year-old girl that calls herself a writer (kind-of) but the only thing she knows how to do is write is love poems. I'm either a hopeless romantic or a shitty writer who doesn't know how to be versatile.  please don't answer that
In the beginning, blogging started off quite well. I thought poetry was too personal to put on a blog. I thought blogs were about recording the "daily happenings". I wrote a few paragraphs, touched on how I was feeling on that particular day, and moved on to new topics. I was even thinking about posting pretty photographs or recipes or fun fashion tips to spice things up....
But lo and behold...
sooner or later I fell back into comfortable patterns,
and I started to write poems again.
For some reason I always need to put how I feel into stanzas with metaphors and pretty images. It's as if I don't know how to write like a normal person when I have a lot on my mind so I'll bust out a line of figurative language instead. I'm scared to be flat, honest, and truthful when conveying my emotions so I hide behind flowery words and poetic license [aka you have no idea what I'm talking about, but that's fine because it's all in the name of creativity] However, truthfully, I keep it general and ambiguous because I'm scared. I don't how to speak directly. I always write about "you" but I never know who this mysterious "you" is.  I don't want to open up so I just write a poem where you or I could be anyone or anywhere in any situation. "You" must be very important my life because I write about you all the time. Seriously, I've been writing about "you" since the 9th grade.
I don't know how to talk about my feelings if it's not in a poem. I don't know how to address people and situations head-on. I don't really know how to do anything except string some nouns and adjectives together. [how am i an intended journalism major?]
It sucks.
I don't want to be an amateur poet who's just a kid who didn't make it. I want to be a writer.

Child

You told me that I would sparkle like the
sunset on Ocean Avenue one day,
fading in and out between the clouds
of conversation and silence,
between the spinning suns
and our whimsical desires.
There was always something
about the darkness we hated,
the empty street cars
and burned out lampposts.
We would litter the streets with
our tiny footsteps,
kick pine cones all the way home
on muggy August evenings.
We were desperately running from
what we couldn't see,
as if the unknown would
break the moon in half,
shatter the thin wall of space
between us and expose
shards of light
too raw to touch.
Your hand is coarse in mind,
but the Forsythia still blooms.

Dear Rumi,

I'll carry you on the subway-
a flimsy collection of words
in my back pocket.
I'll stare at you aimlessly
as you speak of shamas
and true love.
You are often much
greater company than
the people i see as i ride
the silent trains,
the silent passages ways
to unknown destinations
and places.
Thousands of bodies,
jostling here and there,
unaware of the mass
of hearts beating in
unison around them.
They don't smile,
so I stop looking for answers
in their tired eyes.
As of late I keep to myself,
grip the railing and
look down or into the distance,
making eyes with no one but
my reflection in the dirty door mirror.

Today you confirmed the existence of soul mates,
tickled my ears with whispers
I have yet to understand.

Who is your God, Rumi?

I try to walk down West Fourth
with a bounce in my step,
as if i have just come from
a rendezvous with destiny.
I want you to tell me your stories again.
Slower, more carefully.
Don't go without me. 
I'll finger the pages until they
are worn and and dirty,
I'll ride the subway
to a hundred and sixteenth
street and back.