A real poet

A real poet
Carefully crafts every line,
Capturing clichés of distance,
Hot, dry, unforgiving landscapes,
Or tender emotions
Floating on gossamer wings,
Revealing nature’s beauty
With swirls of ink.

Instead,
My clumsy hands
Scribble words on the page,
Jumbled thoughts
Spilling from my fingers
As lips move silently,
Trying to shape meaningless words
Into coherent feelings.

No hours of labour
To create award winning verse,
Just fevered urge
To say something,
To make myself heard
In the darkness of my room,
Safely knowing
It will never be seen.

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