Lost

I could lie to you and say

I’m an avid poet,

And that I aspire to wield

The power to pen sonnets like Shakespeare.

I’d be lying if I told you I’ve read every work

Of Maya Angelou.

I’d be a sinner if I told you

Poetry is my religion.

But even I know

I shouldn’t be given

The title “Poet”

But rather the title “Lost.”

But I’ll say this.

I may not be a Poet,

But I am a Writer.

All pent up emotions,

All the anger and guilt,

Slips through the red ink onto the clean, white paper

Rather than clean, white bathroom floor.

All joy and love

Radiates on pieces of parchment

Like the heat does to the pavement

On a lovely summer’s day.

I may not write mellifluously.

I may not make quick metaphors.

I may not come up with the most tear-jerking couplets.

But that’s what you get when teachers tell you to be upfront,

Repeatedly.  

I can be whoever I want to be when I write,

Though half the time I’m not sure who I am.

I can write what I want to write,

Though nearly all the time I’m not entirely sure what I’m saying.

While I may not be the Queen of Writing Epics,

I am an epic.

While I may not be the Heir of Heroes,

I am a hero.

While I may just be an amateur,

I am something.

If I weren’t,

Then the ink would be pooled on the tiles.

Without pen and paper,

I am nothing.

With pen and paper,

I am not a Poet.

What is poetry without a message?

Just simply words.

You may consider me a Poet,

But I am simply words.