Spoken Word That I’ve Yet To Speak Outloud – I Could Be A Poet

I could be a poet, I’d tell myself,
I mean how hard could it be?
Its just rhyming words,
And then, and then,
Note to self, find something to rhyme with ‘words’.

It was while I was trying to be a poet,
That I became well, this,
I’m not sure how it happened,
But I’m pretty glad it did.

Its like I woke up one morning,
And I somehow saw the world anew,
All the colours so bright and shiny,
Blended just so god damn perfectly together.
Like I walked outside,
And somehow I had paintbrushes for hands,
Able to paint the day how I wanted,
With everything in between, no detail too small.

I’d gained this funny little thing we call experience,
And my how the tables turned.

Those two on the bench,
Were two people on a bench no longer,
They were old friends, realizing they wanted each other,
No, needed each other,
Even after all these years.
I could almost taste the revelation in the air.
And with that revelation on the tip of my tongue,
I’d write a poem about love.

That bird there, with the broken wing, trying hopelessly to fly,
Was a metaphor for me.
Trying so damn hard, but not quite there yet,
But he’d get it,
I’d get it.
And once we did,
My lord, we would hold the world in the palm of our hands,
Or wing, if wings had a palm,
But no matter, we’d still be there,
Or here, or where ever we wanted to be,
If only just by believing we could be.
And with that on the tip of my tongue,
I’d write the poem of my life.

And when you turn and say, its not what it looks like I swear,
I’d say, I know, you don’t have to explain,
But trust me, I’m a writer so what I’m thinking is probably ten times worse than it actually is,
But I like my story better,
Because it involves you and your small, well.
And with that on the tip of my tongue,
I’d write one about rejection.

But I’d stand victorious, stand tall,
Yet never taller than you, not that I could if I tried.

I could be a poet, I’d tell myself,
Its only rhyming words.
And then I realized its more like being that bird,
Constantly moving, constantly trying,
Just to find a home.
And that’s all I’m trying to do,
Find a home, for my words,
So that instead of being in here,
They can be out here instead.

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