Why am I a poet?
Is it just because of my vocabulary and language skills?
If so, all poets should have earlier been teachers at schools.
Is it because, the world I see is different from others, that I write poetry?
But then, every madman on the streets would be the poets of the century.
Is it thanks to my hopeless sentimental romantic emotions?
Who am I kidding? I can’t romance to save my life in any situation.
Can I write poetry simply because I love my pen, papers, and lists?
Then every single stationery shop owner would be a rhapsodist.
Am I a poet indeed?
My words rhyme,
I see beyond the ordinary creed
I can romance – or is that belief a crime?
And I love my pens – for which I possess greed.
But poetry isn’t confined within such a limit;
One can check off all these boxes – and yet not be a poet.
Poets are but mere mirrors.
We make you feel what we earlier did;
your tears are what we earlier shed,
your amusement are but echoes of our laughter.
But then, you have also felt what we have not
we are not mere mirrors – but broken into shards a lot.
The reflection is not of your face as a whole;
but much more deep – it shows what possesses your soul.
You can’t see what is shown underneath;
you see only what you wanted to see.
You read between the lines as you experience poetry,
not what the poet wrote, but what you alone can see.
Doesn’t that make you – a poet too – with wings and set free?
As a broken mirror, we hurt you when handled
and often into the trash – we are bundled.
But rarely does come a soul, who can see
the beauty beyond the poet’s misery.
And it is for that human that we poets survive
to create works of art on which they thrive.
And the question is unanswered yet
why am I a poet?
/*A small contemplation, especially with April being around and you know, Poetry Writing Month and all */