I’m not a poet,

Whitman, Poe, Frost, Angelou,

Poet masters are these.

I, I am simply aspiring to their greatness,

Trying to find my way,

Trying to find the words to express my thoughts,

Trying to share what thrives inside of me.

Hoping that you find some  beauty in the words.

At times, thoughts evade me,

Words seem hard to form as if babbling,

Staring blankly at the page,

Suffering the pangs of the wall that hits me.

Knowing it won’t linger, helps me survive,

Just sitting with paper and pen comforts me,

Like an old friend, I clutch it close to my heart.

But it’s not for me to keep, but to share,

When words come,

Flowing, poetic, symbiotic,

Part of me, like my memories, rushes forth,

Screaming to be let out, shared with the world.

Happiest when I create,

Joyful in the company of prose,

Complete in the illusion that I’m artistic,

Whether real or imagined I don’t know.

Does it matter, I think not,

I will write,

I will let it take me down whatever road it chooses,

I will give my soul to whomever cares to take  it.

This I do out of respect for the art,

Even as an amateur,

I honor Whitman, Poe, Frost, and Angelou,

Hoping to make even the smallest of marks on those I touch.