They never called me “Poet”.
They called me “Weak”,
they called me “Sanguine”,
called me “Depressive”,
called me “Ineffectual”.
They called me “Liar”,
They called me “Dreamer”,
called me “Traitor”,
called me “Strange”,
but never close enough that I could hear them.
I’m basking in these moments,
because they’re all that I have now.
The words just cascade
out of me
like a waterfall.
This is my mind.
This is my soul.
This is my therapy,
my mid-life crisis,
my born-again moment.
Again and again
baptized by the pen.
I never needed them
to call me “Poet”.
This is my mind that I share,
where I admit I’m scared
and triumphs are rare,
but they’re there.
I’m fending off total despair
with words instead of a gun,
instead of a needle,
instead of a bottle;
I’ve already won
this and so many battles
by fighting before they’ve begun.
I guess this is the time
to tell you all my secrets;
since you’ve hung with me this far.
I guess,
I have to pay you for your eyes,
your mind and your heart.
Honestly, I’d rather steal them,
bilk you of all your emotions
and make the perfect get-away.
I guess I’m all the things that they say
and to be honest;
I’ve never called myself “Poet”.
HG – 2017
