They are not merely poets

They are not merely poets. They are sorcerers of words, concealed deep within their souls, Letting them seep out quietly like mysterious shadows. They fear not critics, for they understand that poetry Is an ancestral calling, a force springing from their very beings. Their journals transform into kindness or darkness, Before they realize their calling as magicians of words. Their truths emerge like an enchanted river, astonishing them. Feelings crawl onto pages, in fierce and thirsty letters, And romantic sensibilities settle gently on lined sheets, In the form of sweetness and light that envelop them. They are players of words, possessed by an ancestral obsession, Yet this does not wholly define them. This sorcery is but a secret touch of their own entities. They can be wonderful caregivers or friends, And those who rely on their smile daily may not know That they are enthralled with words and obsessed with bringing them to life. They are unique gems, mined from the depths of divine minds. Poetry rouses subtle veils of their own essences, But their secrets remain occult and hidden. They are not just poets. They are lovers of life and words, keeping their grandeur Hidden and unknown to most.