A motley of expressions For mixed emotions My soul is variegated... Don't call me a poet yet For there are spaces within me Irregular and unutterably ignorant, Crying haphazard emptiness
May be I will become one When sundry passions Get painted on life's canvas Or when the spaces get filled With calm reverberations. When, all that is jumbled Finds congruence like oxymoron Or be content in their paradoxes.
May be I will become one When I stop floating in moderation And resist the drift With some kind of unbridled exuberance And be brave enough to Exploit my confusions and To wield my experiences.
You keep calling me a poet,
I embrace the sentiment but not the title.
I may have some power over words,
But the words themselves are nothing valuable.
It's the world behind the words that matters,
A world where all walls collapse and wither.
--Today, write a poem or prose about what it means to be a poet--