Unspoken eta choke me
So ink will never run dry from the feathers
Unshed amiove flood me
So I will always weep upon paper
I am not a poet!
Do not be betrayed
My concern is more what is false that what is true
Forgive me if I failed
A rhizoid was tagged a buttress root
I am not a poet!
My metres are poor. I never get it right
The diction is loose. I never keep it tight
I write not to standard
Forgive me I have written as I have pondered
I am not a poet!
I know not what makes a verse blank or free
Or what rule follows the rhythm and rhyme…
I know not what makes syllables agree
I just draw inspiration from the hands of time
I am not a poet!
So do not look to find quatrains and couplets
There are lines I could make you
They won’t be the all perfect Haiku
So do not search for sleeves in my singlets
I am not a poet!
Since critics look to see what they would find…
This piece is to liberate peace to myself
So know to standard I am blind..
Do create another space for me on the shelf…
I am not a poet!
My pen forged from that a man fate had harpooned
My Ink speaks for the woman mistakes made barren
My writings are of a shipwrecked brother forever marooned
The Suicide child who left a note “life is boring”
I am not a Poet!
I am now wailing beneath the barriers ‘poets’ erect
I panic at my weakness exposed
But to words, I agree, I’m a flirt
Am the whore whose legs are not closed
I am not a poet!
My piece reeks of mistakes
My works a hike from inspiration
But a like is all it takes
To convince me you felt my lamentation
I am not a poet!
My mind is always in motion
Words just pour from my heart
My hand catches its essence
I just document each emotion
I am not a poet
After all, messy is a good poet’s love life
Dig into history am sure you will find,
They never see satisfaction – an unkind reality
A poet is one with three eyes and yet he is blind,
So I am not a poet!
I spill my rage upon papers
Maybe it’s a curse from the womb..
That I will continually write these letters
So engrave these words on the stone on my tomb:
“For
All he ever needed was a paper and isolation
A pen to paint the canvass of passion and perils
He bothered no one, harboured no secrets
All he wanted was to write out his lamentation
Written by: Terry Terrific Egharevba
Edited by: Kukogho Iruesiri Samson
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