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
It’s not play,
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.