I'm Not A Poet

I'm Not a Poet I'm just a boy with ink-stained fingers, A canvas of paper, and a mind that lingers In the shadows of doubt, where words lose their way And the silence screams louder, with each passing day My words are but whispers, lost in the wind Doodles and scribbles, with no rhyme or reason within I search for a melody, a harmony to share But my voice is a murmur, a faint echo, beyond repair Perhaps I should surrender, lay down my pen Admit that my words are but ashes, not the flames I've sought within But still, I'm drawn to the silence, the emptiness of the page A siren's call, beckoning me to fill the space So I'll scratch at the quiet, with fevered hand And hope that somehow, someway, my words will stand Not as a poet, but as a soul laid bare A fragile, flickering flame, that dares to share.