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Poem
In the morning,
I am not a poet.
This is no matter of opinion,
It is an undisputable fact, and don't I know it.

I am not a poet
In the afternoon, either.
Not for a lack of trying,
The words simply won't flow from my hand to the paper.

When the Sun sets,
Nothing that I write could or should be considered poetry.
Every line sounds like gibberish,
And should be treated accordingly. 

But when I finally rest my head
And close my eyes on my disappointing diminished hexaverse,
I imagine myself in a world where the constellations spell out similes, 
Until I am finally submerged.

I frolicked through a field of Forget-Me-Nots
As I basked in the moonlight made of metaphors,
I could not help but gape at the world 
That was unlike anything I had ever seen before.

Hyperboles whizzed past me,
An ode to life echoed through the air!
I could hear onomatopoeias crashing against a distant shore,
As personification ruffled my hair.

I sat myself on cloud like grass 
And turned my gaze upon the stars,
They twinkled with the secrets of long gone poets,
Whispering sacred bars.

I tried my best to listen 
As Orion and Scorpius traded elegies,
'Til the Man In The Moon said, 
"Not yet my child, you are a poet yet to be."

And so I tore myself away,
And resigned myself to the beach,
I took in every inch of thalassic beauty
As far as the naked eye could see.

I contemplated what would happen
In the morning when I woke,
Would I continue writing underwhelming sonnets,
Until the day I croak?

"No!" The Sea roared
As the tide came rolling in,
"You will write of what you witnessed,
And one day when you return again,

Bellatrix and Hercules will tell your story
To the fleeting comets that come 'round,
They'll say 'There! There they are!
That's the poetic dreamer we told you about!'"

Once the Sun had risen I waved goodbye to the Sea,
And although I was nervous I made sure not to show it,
For I knew the pen would always be mightier than the sword,
When in the hands of a poet.
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