For I am a Poet

I wish to speak

nonsense words and

be understood; for

I am a poet.

Every and any

meaningless thing has a

meaning.

You just have to

look for it.

So my job is to

give these things their

purpose, give them their

life.

I

breath life into the

letters I form,

for I am a

savior. These

words had no intentions until I

picked them up and

brushed off their dust. I

caress them and

care for them and

bend them to my will;

they oblige willingly.

These words create

art on your page, and

I am the

artist, putting

ideas in your mind from a

simple picture. But

this picture you can

read. You can

read the

emotions and

ideas plainly.

I wish to put

thoughts in your mind, for

I am a hypnotist.

I take these words and

twist them to your

preference,

infiltrating your subconscious with

my ideas that I

****** upon you;

I leave

subliminal messages to

think what I think,

do what I do,

say what I say.

You don’t even realize that

you do the same with your

own words.

I wish to be

noticed, for I am

human.

I

write these words

feverishly, hoping that

SOMEONE will

see them,

read them,

appreciate them.

I pour out my

heart and soul in a form that

you will listen to;

all I ask in return is your

approval,

response,

opinion.

Any reaction would suffice.

But it’s for

you that I write, for

you that I take

time and energy to

face my fears,

expose my flaws,

expose my

self;

prove me vulnerable.

Yet

you give me nothing in return.

And I

continue in this

thankless career,

dreaming of the day when

somebody will realize that

all I want is to be

appreciated.

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