Tuesday, July 5, 2011

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 to be poetry,
And there it is written.
But, I’m not a poet
It’s not verses that I pen.

The lines themselves
Are my tears, are my smile
With my quill and my paper
I sketch myself once a while
Recording my life, or
Trying 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
My bones, my pen which are 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
I remember 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.

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