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.
How terrible it is to be a poet from the heart, with the mind of a sane person.
