Not a Poet
I put words on paper.
But I'm no poet.
For to be a poet,
Would mean to bare,
All that I,
Have spent my life,
Running away from.
I'm no poet.
I put words to paper;
I write what I know
Will elicit a response,
That will be favourable,
To the serotonin, I seek.
I'm no poet,
I'm just a coward.
A coward who cowers,
Beneath thinly disguised,
Words.
Words that convey meaning,
But not to me.
I write rhymes,
And silly lines;
Couplets,
And God knows what else;
Just to get a rise,
From all who read these lies.
I'm no poet,
And I don't think,
I ever will be;
This veil behind,
Which I hide;
It's comprised,
Of rhyming lines,
And metaphors.
I write of facades,
For writing is one.
I'm no poet,
Coz I'm afraid.
I'm simply terrified,
Of all I hide.
What if my soul I bare,
And no one cares?
I'm no poet.
I simply put words,
On paper.
I'm quite the faker,
For while you read,
These foolish poems;
And think to yourself,
I'll hide my soul,
And lock it away;
For you won't find me,
Through any of my poems.
A poem on not being a poet. Ah, the irony.
Kommentarer
0Vær den første til å kommentere
Registrer deg nå og bli medlem av A Penguin's Blog sitt community!