A Poet’s Dilemma

I am not a poet.
I do not count my syllables or rime my lines
I do not scratch pages with metaphors so deep, their meaning soars above my head.
I am not a poet because I don’t write for everyone…
I write for me.
I am not a poet.
If I read in front of everyone, or a room, or one person,
I would hear no snaps, get no claps, have no feeling of elation from what others think.
Would I?  No, I am no poet, and I don’t know how to be one.

But you are a poet!

I guess, maybe, with the right light, the right background… I am, aren’t I?
If I tell myself enough times, maybe I just might believe it.
I am a poet. I am a poet. I am… me.
I always write my truth
fill every line with emotions too strong to hold in one body.
I won’t stop.
Not even when I am out of words to write.
Not even when my emotions lay dormant just out of my grasp.
I do not need recognition, nor fans, fortune, or fame.
All I need is the subtlety of language married to the written word.
I am a poet.

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