When asked my occupation I know that I should know it
But I hesitate my words as I long to say… ‘A Poet’
Because my head is always spinning which makes me feel quite terse
As I find myself just speaking in a lost Shakespearian verse…Ye gad
It often drives me mad and I go to bed unwell
Then dreams are just disturbed with a lovely Villanelle
It’s driving me insane or are these words inane?
With poetry forms I chatter then on the page they clatter
I try to stop myself from forming couplets in the street
Then I have to pinch an arm as towards me friends I greet
I can tell they try to hide as they think I am a bore
Because I prostitute my words does that make me such a whore?
Am I doomed to speak in rhyme?... Damn I've done it one more time!
Does this mean I am a poet as I really cannot tell
When people read my words do I have them in my spell?
Do my fellow poets feel that we are in a silent club?
As I conjugate my verbs and consonants my grub
It can be a lonely life when my desire is a pen, and
Keep my work quite hidden for fear others will condemn
The words spill out at will, all in strictly measured feet
When I’m thinking in Iambics, I have to be discreet
In poetry I speak my mind and still I’m not quite sure
If I really am a poet or a writer immature?
The day will come when death, will put me in a cask
I’d like a pen placed in my hand and on my face a paper mask…