A Poet is not always a Poet

I said I wouldn't write another poem
I said I'd put down the pen
I said I'd walk away, run, hide- I tried.
I said I'd think no more, ponder no more
now I'll drive myself crazy for sure.
I needed some outlet
but a poet is not always a poet.
His inspiration moves about like wind
effect of which seen but not understood
his sincerity speaks in times of grief
his words are not his own.
His  lips take trips.
Its like magic how he puts words together
a empty vessel
the potter is not far behind

Some-days a poet will wish for other things
maybe a love to quench the thirst of his heart
maybe some other activity to make his coaster life sweet
sometimes a poet draws, sometimes he observes no laws
He can be a reckless soul, with the hole a gun aimed at him
A poet is not always a poet, though he may not know it.

Poets do other things, when its time for party he rings
poets love to smile, are sun rays seen all the while?
Sometimes he feels on top of the mountain
other times he tips close to the edge
with the debate of a voice in his head
looking down memory lane like should I remain.
A poet can go years without writing a word
without being seen, without being heard.
He needs just a thump to pull him out his dump
or some wild affection to make his heart jump
either way some addiction will hold him down
and so he frowns


A poet can do so many things
which can make him be nothing at all.
A poet can feel lazy. When hes down hes down
when hes up, hes up.
A poet is unpredictable.
Hes never right hes left
Hes not a sheep, hes a goat
He dies for words to preach his mind,
 but hates the crowds that live behind.
A highlander with many faces
who lived life in many places.
Hes not always solitary, though its hard to fit it
he always finds some reason for living.


I say a poet can be lonely. He is sheltered with understanding
fed with expression, entertained with wisdom.
the use of his gift gives him peace
the knowledge of himself is his paycheck
the necessity of his curiosity keeps him going.
He says it is good when his work is done
and  rests only when perfection is met.

When not in writing, hes conforming to hiding.
He eats the crumbs from the table of heaven
to avoid wasting in the bin of hell.
He prays for every opportunity to escape the prison of his sentence
and then drinks when the windows of heaven open doors of rain
He is delicate like a puppy or flower
but ferocious like a lion in word power
He is most of all a mental case, an outcast to his own fate
one who seems to have escaped the confines of some ward.
But you will never know it cause a poet is not always a poet.


Mythical_Poet- dft1