Just to start off, I am not a poet.
But people see me as one though,
Cause when I write I want to rhyme every time,
And this addiction is bringing me some friction.
You know I am not a poet.
But when I feel the urge,
Before I write,
Veins begin to pulse,
Heart beats to the rhythm of a drum,
Which can only be heard,
Within the confines of my bedroom.
Every image I ever had, covered,
Underneath its dark blue paint.
With no poster placed over them,
But words which constantly occupy my mind.
Chapter by Chapter,
Page by Page,
Every word continuing to another,
Then I stop breathing…
Air is still, body is calm,
(Exhale) then I begin.
I want to write the perfect words,
But I know I can’t.
Every thought formed in my mind,
The flashes of words,
Love, hate lament, myth, nature…
Formulating around my brain,
Surging more words and phrases,
Unknown, knowledge, thought, sight…
Which hit the page in disorder,
Leaving me trapped beneath my pen.