I write poems every where i go but I don’t consider myself a poet I am not quite good enough for that

I wrote my first poem class I wrote the next on an app I wrote in books And just now I am writing from the shower floor

I can write anywhere ai can write here or there Give me a paper and a pen And let the magic begin

Words flow from my brain through my body merge with the ink and the pen spits then out

Worss of wonder courage and despair They all lay there Written and read once again

Its effortless nearly Words are the air that i breathe A key to survival In a workd thats hardly worth living in

But even though I write anything anywhere I still don’t think I am a poet

I wonder, at times if I am worth reading If my life is half the pages I pretend to write

Because the poetry that spills Within the ink of this pen, I grip Exists to emit what only others feel The weight of their sorrow While my pages remain unfilled

Like, death I have written to the excess That one might think I express that which exists within me But I reflect those better versed in life

For what am I if not an empty page dreaming itself a book Always aware of what is and never what should Like what is it to be living, I knew Never what one should do to be alive

Defining what the world means Is what I do best Poetry dripping, thick through me But words with little weight to anchor these pasted fillings On the fresh pages left unfilled

I have written of love That I have not felt

Of pain and sorrow That has crept
tightly pressing onto my chest

I have written of death To the excess That one might think I try to express a deep turmoil That exists within me But all are just reflections of those well-versed in life

I am all knowledge and no wisdom An empty page dreaming itself a book For I know what is and not what should

I snuffed me out / Or I thought I might. Cross-legged on the floor: burn marks, Charred / But I Am melted wax Seeping into my own / Damned conscience.

Scorched.

Little boys burn brighter when they / Realise, Time doesn't stop when you're extinguished. Nobody waits if you slacken / So Pack it up, man—

I picked me up / Or at least I tried.

I don't care If you're burnt out; Jack, be fucking nimble.

You want to torch this city Underground. / This time They will know, I could not have tried harder.

We are men of our words, But Dad chose the money.

And his _words? _Collecting dust / Under A stack of radiology textbooks And the weight of Respectability.

And I I screwed me up / I'm a wretched kid.

I'm going to be just like my Daddy When I grow up.

And I- He could've been, should've been A poet.

But he- I'm going to be, I have to be A doctor.

With grades like those, you're gonna go far.

Then why is he so Stranded?

I'm lighting the match.

Jack, be quick; Those papers won't write themseves.

He says Apple and Tree Is far too cliché, But he knows that I didn't fall far.

Man and son, never young:

Both stunted; Burnt stumps.

To CS Lewis

Lewis, thou cretinous wretch, in Christ’s peace might ye rest, ye heaven-hued brother, see how mine heart’s form hath thine verse bothered —— wherest Hephaestus’ gold-heat hath now mine mind tempered, and tampered have ye with mine molten soul, thou’st poured me into a peculiar mold, left me to cool, lifted mine form from thy forge and sharpened mine face with thou visage — brother, behold what blade thou hast made! And on thy grindstone, thou namest poetry, which thou wilt not hath endeared as Holy, yet thrice thou hath refined mine edge, here I cut mine fingers upon mine own flesh, and upon mine tempestuous spirit, and sliced hath I, a piece of thy mind, an iota of thy soul is here, oh brother, oh bother, it is here, and strange, and strangling mine. Thus, in death, yea, even from thy grave, thy bear fruit! See what thou hast done! Glory to the King!

   Until we are unending poems,
 
        A sword from thy heart

The grief I hold for you is silent, the tears poetry,

please, spare me

           inconstancy.

Poetry Where to begin? Other than the waves of hatred, There is only anger and pain.

Poems They look at you with pity and fear Knowing that they’ll be soon torn apart And left with nothing but a fake meaning

Meaning That was never there in the first place. Why try to find meaning where there is none? The way these poems are put through the depths of hell for our English class

Analyzing Picking the poem apart like a scientific experiment Just give me tweezers and a lab coat Have we forgotten how to enjoy poetry?

Reading Do you people know how difficult it is To enjoy poetry, when we must look for a ‘Hidden meaning’ when the words are right on the surface?

Writing Not as bad as analyzing poems, But it’s hard to be creative when forced to Good poems take heart, but am I willing to give that up?

I hated the awkward classroom… set pieces to study and interpret, collections of old words; stuffy and unexciting

I flunked the mock literature exam… parental payment withheld, works of the greats untouched; only language class remained

Roll on many years… experiences mounted, feelings rose, language came to the fore… poetry spilled onto the page

Intermittent waters have passed… swirling seas and entwined estuaries, raging rivers and struggling streams; an ebbing flow of ink…

Spurting speech setting rights, peaceful peonies showing face, holy holistic interludes; surfaced scenarios explained

Language can be spoken… words told - maybe forgotten; In the hands of a poet, the pen of life is held

Tapped out, it never lies…

How does one become a What makes one a Who am I to call myself a Poet?

How does one write What makes my words Who am I to say that I make Poetry?

Meter Couplet Refrain Rhythm Stanza Pentameter Rhyme Where is mine?

Free verse Is worse Give me S R C U E T U T R Give me sestinas Villanelles Haiku and Sonnets Limericks and odes Ballads galore!

Break me free Bring me free verse Let me put pen to paper Finger to key Let me make poems That are just for the eyes Let me make poems That shape how I feel Let me be a poet Let me write poetry

Let me send out the pieces I’m less proud of Let me send out the pieces Only for me Let me learn Let me grow Let me write

Pass me a pen

In a daze, I sit and stare, I tap my pen, I scratch my head, But all I hear is silence.

Perhaps I'll doodle or take a nap, Anything to escape this writing trap!