Hello, poet.

And now, everybody wants to become a poet.

They say, “oh, it’s mere play of words!”

No darling, words play with you.

Filthy, corrupted yet somehow

Craftfully decorated.

It’s not play,

It’s witchcraft.

It’s creation.

Anything but play.

Anything but choosing the best words and weaving into a rhyme

I’m not telling you to stop trying;

But, till the time spilling out words

Doesn’t set you free

And doesn’t become a necessity

Til the time you can’t find your pain, your agony

Hiding in them, beautifully

Till the time you don’t bleed with your words

And they don’t mar you with ecstacy

Don’t call yourself a poet.