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?