I Am Not a Poet

I am not a poet.
I do not know how to speak with meaning,
and I do not know how to use words
nor do I know where they came from.

Babble, babble, babble.

Six years of college means nothing
if you don’t go to class
because of social anxiety
or whatever excuse there was that day,
like stressed-induced diarrhea,
or because the professor was crazy and you were scared,
or because you were craving that good halal food.

I picked up some words along the way,
but I still don’t know how to use them;
to shape them into poetry.

I’ve written lyrics.
Four years worth of them.
But the words didn’t come spontaneously.
For the most part.
They took years
with the help of rhyme sites,
and dictionaries.
And there were droughts.

But I’m still not a poet.

I feel as if you have to write poetry,
live poetry,
breathe poetry.
Every day.

If anything,
What I am is a writer.

But I’m not a poet.

What a relief.
I’m one more BABY step
to knowing who I really am.

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