I’m not the poet they write about,
the one who sculpts words like marble,
or whose metaphors burn the page.
I’m more like a guy with a pen
and too many feelings,
hoping no one notices
when I rhyme “love” with “above”
for the third time this week.
I scribble on napkins,
doodles of half-baked lines,
wondering if this is art
or just therapy.
No one's calling it genius,
but it keeps my hands busy,
keeps my head from spiralling.
I don’t have sonnets
tucked in my sleeve,
just awkward attempts at verses
that sounds better in my head,
and maybe that’s the point
not every word has
to change the world,
some are just here
to survive the day.
©umclite
U