Don’t Call Me a Poet
The heart is in the chest, the mind within the skull,
Even if a single tear drops, it becomes a poem full.
A poet’s words, they stir your soul at any time,
Even if he passed long ago, leaving only rhyme.
Life goes by unnoticed, with neither joy nor pain,
Poets fade away, but flowers won’t bloom again.
You read their verses for countless years ahead,
Even after death, you can’t claim they’re dead!
Life dawns with or without us, it’s true,
But my eyes can’t always see it through.
The words I leave behind, engraved on stone,
Will reach hearts for centuries, all on their own!
You praise me to my face, then stab my back with lies,
Many will empty your pockets with disguise.
If you read my poem, and don’t pause or care,
Don’t call me a friend, don’t call me “poet” there.
Don’t call me a poet if I don’t reach afar,
Don’t call me a poet if my words don’t leave a scar.
Don’t call me a poet if my words don’t touch,
If I write only for myself, it’s too much.
Who is the poet? Many don’t know or see,
They gossip and whisper from far as can be.
A true poet is born for humanity's sake,
Not living a lie for their own selfish break.
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