I Am Not A Poet

I’m a soul lost in a world unknown,
Trying to understand life’s mysterious moan.
In words I express my carnal confusions,
Every line bears my delusions and illusions.

Poetic language, poetic rules;
These to me are no potent tools.
But a poet uses them all,
To write meaningful stanzas that forever stand tall.

I’m just a friend of the pen,
Sometimes afraid of spilling its ink;
Yet unable to ignore what my ancestors think.
I’m an ancient mouthpiece to this earth graciously given.

I write, not for fame, fun or pleasure,
Nor for life’s irresistible and obfuscating leisure.
My pen awakes when the gods command,
To revive love and peace in this earthly land.

These living words, these stupid lines,
Are immortal wisdom’s benevolent designs.
They’re the enchanting knowledge of today and tomorrow,
Exquisite messages, whose joy, all souls do burrow.

A poet is phantasmagoric and sublime,
His kaleidoscopic poems possess an endearing rhyme.
He lives in pages and books forever,
His thoughts leave him never.

But I write thoughts I do not own,
And my words never leave any heart alone.
I’m humble, simple and benign,,
My unrhymed and formless verses, timeless and divine.

I’m not a poet, I can’t be one,
I’m just a mortal with an immortal creative swan.
Writing wisdom that will stay for all ages,
Writing divinity’s heart in simple messages.