"This isn’t the Poet you’re looking for"—
I wave my hand and grin—
No laurel wreath adorns my brow,
No Greatness stitched within.
I’m not the Bard of Avon’s stage,
With ghosts and kings at war—
Nor Raven-haunted midnight voice
That taps upon the door.
I’m not the Belle of Amherst
Dressed in white and measured pain—
No slant-rhymed Hymns in attic rooms,
No immortality gained.
I’m not the Doctor rhyming Fish
Through worlds absurd and bright—
No Cat in hats or sneetchy stars
Go marching through the night.
I am no marble Monument
The Scholars kneel before—
No name embalmed in textbook dust,
No Portrait hung in lore.
I write because the marrow aches—
Because the pulse insists—
Because some nights the only proof
I lived— is lines like this.
So if you seek the deathless Ones—
Their echoes still ring true—
But I — a Voice — not yet secure —
Am merely passing through.