I Am Not a Poet
I am not a poet
I sit alone in this room, lit by a candle
These walls I lean on are painted with gloom
A storm outside seems to wash my vibe away
An inkless page stares at me like an empty vessel
The virgin pen in my hand, irks my fingertips
Words are better when they come from lips
No, I cannot do it I say
I am not a poet
If I were a poet, I would pen to the young boys and girls
To teach them the ethos of life
I would send word in rhyme to the leaders
Of this world and tell them; let your rule be just
To the soldiers I would write; lay down your weapons
Let no more blood be shed
I would even poet to the stars until they shone brighter
And to all the inhabitants of the earth; I’d preach kindness to one another
But I searched in me, I found not the words
Nothing but a scared heart, a diminutive vibe
For poetry is not intellect, it is a gift
Poetry is not pondered on; it emanates naturally
Poetry is inspiration, not perspiration
Poetry is like a gentle nudge on your spine
It is the soothing breeze to your spirit; a bursting bosom that spits out words
Poetry is like a wind chime
A whisper from the gods to us mortals
Poetry is like water from a river; to quench a chosen few
Poetry comes from the deep and sacrosanct valleys of the heart
Alas; my valleys are shallow, my rivers are dry
I am not a poet!
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