Conviction of a Poet
Not wanting to carry my own chair
Yet, for sure somewhere out there
Someone, behind the scene, likes my poetry
Not by its message, nor by its poetic artistry
Perhaps, they just simply like it
Some may not, or, even disagrees a little bit
Others may post comment……..bad or good
Still, I can accept, even if it’s rude
For without them, how can I learn?
To succeed, one needs others’ concern
This is what I’m trying to imply--
Myself, to fear, I must not comply
The arts of writing is not my cup of tea
It just happened that I discovered its beauty
Though, my skill, limited to basic conjugation
A barrier that I dare to tackle with emotion
So, aging brain is now addicted to write
Not because it senses the waiting termite
But, for the sake of recording my identity
To be wrapped in words, for others to see
For when the whispering wind blows its last
At least, I’ve no regret, for someone will cast
The priceless treasure, I left, from the mind
From blood to blood, it‘ll always be mine
And for the meantime, I’ll keep on writing
…love, hate, friendship and all sorts of things
That’s burning inside me…..
Great or not, how does poet’s mind works?
Copyright © Ernesto P. Santiago | Year Posted 2006
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