I put words on paper. But I'm no poet. For to be a poet, Would mean to bare, All that I, Have spent my life, Running away from. I'm no poet. I put words to paper; I write what I know Will elicit a response, That will be favourable, To the serotonin, I seek. I'm no poet, I'm just a coward. A coward who cowers, Beneath thinly disguised, Words. Words that convey meaning, But not to me. I write rhymes, And silly lines; Couplets, And God knows what else; Just to get a rise, From all who read these lies. I'm no poet, And I don't think, I ever will be; This veil behind, Which I hide; It's comprised, Of rhyming lines, And metaphors. I write of facades, For writing is one. I'm no poet, Coz I'm afraid. I'm simply terrified, Of all I hide. What if my soul I bare, And no one cares? I'm no poet. I simply put words, On paper. I'm quite the faker, For while you read, These foolish poems; And think to yourself, I'll hide my soul, And lock it away; For you won't find me, Through any of my poems. A poem on not being a poet. Ah, the irony.
