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To Be a Poet
by Richard VincePerhaps I never really tried,
No matter what some choose
To believe. Perhaps it really has
All been for myself after all.
We are prompted by different
Things, emerge from different places
In our lives to find the words
That were always hibernating
In our hearts.
For me, it was a solution,
Though not the one I sought:
All I had been told, all I believed,
Turned out to be myths I could
Not translate into reality,
But I stumbled across something
Better, something that helped me
Without harming others.
And as I ever so slowly
Grew up, I realised that they were
Con artists: mere charlatans whose
Words were worms on a hook,
Dangled in the hope of getting
A bite from the unsuspecting.
In rambling endlessly about
Myself, I always feared I was
Selfish, but now I know
I could have been far worse.
At last, I am glad to be
Who I am, rather than
Who I could, theoretically, have been.
At last, I have found my way
With words, through words;
The thing I was looking for
All this time.
11/06/2019 Posted on 01/02/2020
Copyright © 2024 Richard Vince
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Glenn Currier on 01/04/20 at 07:27 PM I certainly do relate, Richard. I think it is a good thing to be asking myself about my being selfish or self-centered. It seems to come pretty natural to me, so if I am able to avoid the tendency, it is something supernatural. Your last stanza is especially relevant to me because poetry helps me notice stuff and to dig deeper with the shovel of words. Thanks for you great piece. |
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