Don't Call Me Poet...

He wrote a poem titled it the last poet
he was in the poem era, the last before all went quiet…
And the only sound I could hear was rhyme and flow
so, maybe I sound like this in slow motion,
maybe I found my place in flow motion.
But I don’t think you should call me poet, without caution.

A little about me though no autobiography; I flunked literature class,
needless to add I don’t have my poetic license.
So I read twice as much as I write, when I write,
My scripts are ten times better than when I spit.
Guess my ten fingers can take credit for this.

Don’t call me poet, I don’t think I’ve graduated.
So what if my thoughts sound like they’ve marinated
I’m not there yet but I’m steadily moving toward it,
all I need is this ink for what I feel, to word it
I don’t seek for you to understand this, what I want is
for you to feel me as though you’re blind and I’m Braille.

Don’t call me poet, I know nothing about rhythm,
my pace is uneven, maybe I lack lyrical fitness.
The only beat I know and write to, that of my heart.
And that’s another 72 reasons every minute
why me and pen will never part.

Also, don’t call me a troubadour, metaphysicist or a lyricist,
nor a phrasologist, rhymewriter, wannabe or a floacist.
See what you call me, isn’t really that important.
‘cause what the question really is,
is should I call you poet?

Hiatus...then back!

To two (or more) loyal blogmarkers...I didn't never leave, I just didn't think a lot of what i've been penning down over the past few was good enough to make it here. It ain't for nobody to get philosophical about not believing in myself (narcissistic tendencies notwithstanding), it's pretty simple. If I don't like it myself, well...

Now this got me thinking that maybe I am not poet. So then I wrote...