I’m Not A Poet......

My hand starts moving.
On the paper the quill screams
Out flow the emotions
The regrets and the dreams
It seems like poetry,
Whatever I’ve written
But, I’m not a poet
It’s not verses that I pen.

The lines themselves
Are my tears, are my smile
Through my quill, on my paper
I sketch myself every once a while
I record my life, or maybe
Try to tell someone, as it did once happen
I’m not a poet
It’s not verses that I pen.

Maybe it’s a plea
Maybe it’s an accusation
Maybe I just want to be heard
But it’s my only consolation
Maybe I’m just hoping
That someone-somewhere….will listen….
I’m not a poet
It’s not verses that I pen

The words are my pain
My love, my anger, my sorrow
The ink is my own blood
The pen is my bone, which by now is hollow…
I only try…
To relieve the pain,
To re-live the joy…
Of times forgotten….
I’m not a poet
It’s not verses that I pen

The world starts to blur
Scenes flash in front of my eyes
I stare at them transfixed
And simply note-down all the truths and lies
Leaving some mark on the sands of time
Eternalizing a memory now and then
I’m not a poet
It’s not verses that I pen

Crying out every word
Smiling out every line
Like ém or hate ém
At least they are mine
In lands of dreams and rhymes
I lose myself quite often
But I’m still not a poet
It’s not verses that I pen.