I am not a poet.
I do not write poetry.
Poetry, to me, is a lyrical, rhythmic string of words
That eloquently drift off your tongue, melodiously;
Filled with exclamations and romantic metaphors.
I cannot create that.
I lack the ability to produce ingenious literary substance.
I only take fragments of my mind and soul and sew them together-
With quick, reckless stitches into an exaggerated aesthetic
Of haphazard untidiness for fear of missing the moment
Of the passionate urgency required to verbalize it;
For fear of losing the courage required to expose myself.
No, I am not a poet.
I am but a cowardly wordsmith.


One thought on “Wordsmith.

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