I’m really not. Whenever I’m assigned to write a poem, or even if I just want to write a poem, I can’t do it. I write random words down and sometimes try to throw in some rhyme and rhythm, but nothing ever means anything. I am a terrible poet… when I’m trying.
However, sometimes I get lucky. Sometimes I stay up late enough and something inside of me is bothered enough or feels strongly enough to find its way into my writing. A couple months ago this occurred, and I wrote a poem, and I actually think it might possibly be worth something to someone other than me.
It speaks to me, it calls my name
Distracts me from the day’s veneer.
It reaches into my chest
With gossamer hands
And draws out all my fears, my hate,
My love, my joy
It pulls out what I did not even know was there
And holds it before me.
“Look,” says the melody, “you see?
You cannot hide yourself from me.”
~October 18th, 2012
(12:11 am, because I can only write poetry after midnight, it seems…)
It actually sort of resembles a real, decent poem. For a non-poet, that’s pretty impressive. So, in closing, I will leave you with these contradictary words of wisdom:
I’m not a poet…
But at least I know it!
Poetically yours (but not really…),