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.