The Poet Beyond

I’m sorry I’m not a poet Though I masquerade; I flow it. My pen moves too often when it is not my hand. Indeed it is my fingers, but those lines were not my land. There is a writer, beyond my view. And they supply me with poems that are new. I wish to pen, wish to spill But my mind sits empty, despite my will. And in moments as such, when I have the need, but not the ink The Poet beyond my eyes offers me his drink. And so he lets me steal from him a rhyme or two In hopes it unlocks one of mine, in time, or a few. But often I walk away with the whole work, and he knows it. Because though I may want to be, I’m sorry, I’m not a poet.