Poets do not write about their greatness.
The moon does not announce its beauty
before silvering the rivers at night.
The ocean never kneels at the shore
to recite the depth of its own heart.
Even thunder speaks only once,
then leaves the trembling sky
to explain its power.
A true poet
wears silence like a second skin.
He hides galaxies inside ordinary words,
plants eternity in fragile pages,
and walks away
before applause learns his name.
He writes about broken windows,
about mothers whose prayers
hang like tired curtains in poor homes,
about boys who smile loudly
to bury the funeral inside their chests.
He writes about rainwater
washing dust from forgotten streets,
about lovers who promise forever
with hands already learning goodbye.
Yet hidden beneath every verse
is a fingerprint of the poet himself
not his pride,
but his wounds.
Ink is only blood
that has learned to speak politely.
The greatest poets
are rarely the loudest men in the room.
Mountains do not compete with rooftops.
The sun never argues with candles.
What is truly magnificent
has no hunger to be seen.
A poet understands
that greatness is not a trumpet.
It is a quiet lamp
left burning for strangers.
It is giving your soul to language
without demanding a statue in return.
So poets do not write about their greatness.
They write about humanity instead
because only small minds
stand in front of mirrors forever,
while great souls
become windows
through which the world
finally sees itself.
22/05/26
Ghana 🇬🇭