The words that spill out of my mouth,
"I am a poet"
are met with skepticism.

"Really?" 
comes the reply.
"then write something right now."

"Give me a topic."

"Rivers."

My mind struggles for words,
for rhythm,
for rhyme,
I am forced to say words 
that I have already said,
that I have already known.
When I finished,
they applaud me,
they are impressed.
But in the back of *my* mind,
all I feel is guilt.
I claimed to be a poet,
a champion of words,
an expresser of feelings,
and yet failed to meet a challenge.
It doesn't matter if they know,
because **I know**.
But,
my resolution is now clear.

**Poems are my solace,
and I cannot be forced to grieve.**