The words that never flowed from my pen
The rhymes that never danced upon my tongue
The verses that never sang with sweet refrain
The poet that I never was, forever young

In secret, I would scribble lines of fire
But fear and doubt would soon my dreams conspire
Against the page, my words would lose their might
And I, a silent poet, lost in endless night

Yet still, the muse would whisper in my ear
Of all the poems I would never write, the tears
I'd cry for all the verses left unspoken
The poet that I never was, my heart still broken

But even now, in dreams, I see myself anew
A poet, wild and free, with words that shine like dew
And though I never was, perhaps in some other life
I'll find the words to say, the poet that I'll be, in strife