My aptitude was a farce
An inadequate measure
"To be a poet" some time ago
My high percent sell my heart as sure
That this was meant to be
But with my time dwindling so
I see it not as blatantly as it be
But rather chance of mistaken identity
I am no poet
But a man with temporary troubles
A canvas to convey it
And thoughts popped in drifting bubbles
My perception is my rival
Changing my life as I follow through it
Making it harder to face my denial
As I splinter off of this conduit
My words are a sham
The meaning in them is hollow
Even I can not follow
What I write to define me as who I am
"A change in career, perhaps"
Another mindless change from fear
An accident made from confusion
Another wound I see as only a contusion
I don't agree with myself
My definition of a poet
To lock myself in rhythmic testimony
And charge myself for it
I say no more
I abandon the tradition of my rhyme
I have no stories to tell
"I've run out of inspiration"
Am I excused?
It doesn't feel genuine
I won't want to hassle you
...
Brief over me and dismiss me as fodder
A ticking clock in the form of text
Is this the journey?
The life of a poet, drowned in confusion and uncertainty
Am I destined to live without knowing who I should be?
Is this for me?
Or have I seen all there is for me?
Jaded skies in uncertainty
I am a number in forcibly
What I deem my constitutionality
A judgement I decide as worthy of personality
"Am I a poet?"
Hello.
It says I am.
I can think I'm one.
A poetaster, a lyricist, a bard.
But literature be ******, I'm destined to live as I am.
A poet or not, this is the life I've sought.
Whether I like it or not, I'll give it all I've got.
Life changes. I can understand that. But I'm worried that I've stopped writing poems, and instead just try to "churn them out". I'm not feeling inspired anymore, it feels like a self-obligation. I don't want to leave this website with sub-par writings, but I feel like I can always do better. Even when I give it my all, I'm not sure if it's all I can give. And I want that to change.