Honeyed Magic, Defective Cures

I have always wanted to write like you.
Every expression that flows from the tip of your pen,
Inspiring, evocative and pure, like things in this world rarely are;
You, whose every whim resembles a dulcet elixir,
Before it even meets paper,
Honeyed magic.

I will never be able to write like you.
Every phrase drawn with blood from the hole in my heart,
Agonizing, raw emotion blending with sincerity, nothing but the ugly truth;
I, whose inspiration comes from inherent despair,
Will only ever invent,
Defective cures.

I look and see jutting out of your shoulder blades,
Snowy, immaculate wings of an angel.
I can feel my own two wings recoil in disgrace,
They are torn, monstrous, with bone showing through singed feathers and flesh.

I will never be able to capture the same eloquence as you,
See the beauty of life and imbue this vision in others.
All I do is brood and try to grab hold of fleeting imaginings,
Morbid memories and nightmares that won't stop haunting me.

I am not jealous, just curious.
Why?
Even if I match you simile for simile,
Metaphor for metaphor,
It is useless.

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When the professor hands back our writing assignments,
And you get an A, I am not at all surprised.
The A+ on my paper though,
Makes me speechless.