I'm a poet, do I know it?
How could I show what I don't know?
How could I grow from what I can't show?

          Knowledge is painful, do I bleed?
          Ignorance is boring, must I plead?
          For something that every human will need?
          To say or share or sing my pain?
          I'm simply a poet with too much to say
          But ever as such, I have no more to gain

                    I am a poet, does that mean I'm in pain?
                    Singing and crying and lying with shame?
                    Must I pretend that life is always a cloud?
                    That is dark and its only purpose to shroud
                    And destroy all the happiness that I see every day
                    Would that make me a poet, in any way?

                              You are a poet, I can see in your eyes
                              As they scour the ground searching for disguise
                              As they prey on the souls of the giddy and free
                              You are a poet, you are like me
                              And I assume that means you're in pain
                              But looking at you, I see no such shame

                                        He was a poet, with blood on his tongue
                                        Choking, and curling his sin to a song
                                        Singing in tunes with abysmal pain
                                        He made me a poet, he made me feel shame
                                        But I don't need him when you made me feel free
                                        *There was never a poet as happy as me