How painful is it to be a poet,
Who can't write.

A poet who has thoughts,
Terrible ones,
But can't express.

A poet with emotions.
But was never heartbroken.

A poet of a few words,
And even those are not the fascinating ones.

A poet who wants to, but can't rhyme.
A poet who wants to but cannot write.

{Like a Doctor Who Can't operate
But a doctor can also be a poet from the heart.}

A poet not so poetic.

A poet like me.

They tell me don't try too hard.
It all comes from within.
But how and when?
Because I am desperately waiting for the time to come,
When those words will flow out of the nib of my pen onto the paper/blank.
As smooth as a river going into the ocean.
Like a fine aged wine from the bottle.
Because it is too heavy,
To keep it all inside,
Troubling my mind and soul,
Like a thousand years old ghoul.
But it is all Stuck up,
jamming all my words.

HE never gave me those beautiful words.

I read, I read and I read a lot.
Hoping It would be able to turn into something like it. (into those words)

Like a poem.
A flawless poem which leaves you gasping for breath.

I want to become a poem.
I want to become a story,
Which makes you cry, itch and then leaves with an ache for more.

I wish I could use those brand pompous words.
The mesmerizing vocabulary,
Impeccable rhyme,
The exceptional emotion,
preposterous thoughts.

I don't complain.
I just want to be.
Why is it never enough just to be?

And if you have to choose between,
Being you or a poem:
What kind of poem would you be?

All these magnificent poets
And yet there I am.

Did I mention?
Poet of a few words.

Alas! Again
Words, Words,  Words,
I wish I had a way with them.