I thought I was a poet, richly endowed as one can be
As daily I keep dropping my lines, free for all here to see
Believing am the best, but little did I know
I was but a toddler, like Jimmy Jat and co.
I thought I can birth words, make them sound so nice and sweet
Paint pictures with words, with my poetic ink and wits
Speak for the voiceless, intervene for the weak
Heal the brokenhearted, care for the sick
I thought I can change the times, with my fine entreating lines
Bring the mighty low, with my strong rhythmic mimes
Cause the tempest, and raging billows; come to a still
Command kings and princes to obey, and do my will
I thought I was a songbird, like the eastern nightingales
Who chirps and sings with glee, songs of hope to the meek
With reassuring words, that a better future awaits
The patient soul who today, sleeps and wakes up in reeks
I thought I was that poet who knows the way of the pen
Who knows how to pen down all that’s good and true
I thought I was that poet, the crush of Julie’s Ken
Not until I checked the countdown and saw who’s who
Now am dejected, my pen is of no use!
I’ll relieve me of my love for this low spirited muse
I am a member of the WRR editorial team.