A title too strong
But if uve travelled from 1 at 36 u will know my soul that's why I combined to write a novel for a fear of becoming a poet who never was.
I thought I was a poet who had a pen of gold With clear access to writing that was mature and bold.
I thought I could go roaming beside the foaming sea
And watch the seagulls gliding to give a show for free.
I thought I was a poet who walked along the beach In awe I stood and wondered, my hand stretched out to reach
The silver thread dividing the water from the sky
And traced Guyatu's features as slowly she went by.
I thought I was a poet who knew what joy could be On hearing water roaring cascading down with glee.
I looked for inspiration, experienced utmost thrill
When climbing down the valley or up the verdant hill.
I thought I was a poet in charge of heat and cold
But lost my true emotions when I was duped and told I had to reach perfection to please my heart and mind By means of imitation. My soul I left behind. I thought I was a poet who had a pen of gold But now all of a sudden I'm weary, frail and old. I thought I was a poet. My pen is of no use. With teary eyes I whisper to my dejected muse.
It matters to me cause I mind me...
Am clear it ain't fear but a weakness within.
