The Poets
I envy the poets
The ones who can disentangle the threads of their thoughts
And smoothen them out on paper
Each word, each letter, each curve of their quill laden with meaning, passion and emotion
These innocuous traces of ink
Do not mask the fervour in the minds of the poets
I balk at their audacity
And admire their ability
I wonder, do their words ever choke them, as mine do?
Has their voice ever been swallowed by fear?
Do their ink-stained hands ever shake and their eyes well up with ardour as they put pen to paper?
Meanwhile, I yearn for the identity of 'This Sublime Poet'
I ask myself: Am I a poet yet? Or simply a writer? Or am I just someone who uses words to emote?
Do my poems have an essence? A hidden interpretation derived by reading in between the lines? Or am I just one among countless others who hide behind the artificialities of language?
Do I possess any substance or do I lack it?
Am I the seed? Or the husk?
Or am I the fruit? Albeit the one that falls to the ground, wasted?
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