I am Not a Poet

I am not a poet,

I am not a writer,

I have no spectacular secrets

To make the world brighter.

My thoughts fail to hover

On visions of star-crossed lovers

Or scarlet letters in the sky,

There is not Shakespeare or Hemingway

In these solemn eyes.

But still come forth,

Out of my noble fountain pen,

Tales rich in adventure, wonder, and suspense.

When the walls of this lonely room surround me,

My work continues to astound me,

The words that I have inscribed in a wistful rush

Make those around me

Laugh, cry, and softly blush.

Vacant alleys scattered with crime and drugs,

High school hallways bursting with heartbreak and hugs,

Crystal tears of a pregnant teen,

Triumphant howls of a baseball team,

Flashlight beams of children in camp,

Deafening echoes of a stereo amp…

These are the scenes that pour from my mind,

Real-world problems I attempt to unwind.

In the spiraled cage of a notebook,

My work is hidden,

Away from the spotlight

That fate has forbidden.

Praise the Fitzgeralds!

Praise the Whitmans!

History lacks a place

For my work to sit in.

I may not be a poet,

I may not be a writer,

But I do not lack the precious gift,

To make my own world brighter.