I am a poet, but am I? – An Ode to poetry
How can one ask a shadow it’s name,
How can the sun enjoy the rain,
How can a man be the same,
So I ask thee, how are my words poetry?
If heaven is unknown, can it be hell?
If the heart is stopped, does it rebel?
If a soul is sad, can God tell?
So I ask thee, if my words are poetry?
Why do I have to be so sane,
Why does the eye have to be so vain?
Why does heart try again and again,
So I ask thee, why are my words poetry?
What do you say in your breath last,
What do you do when returns the past,
What do you do with the word “alas”?
So I ask thee, what makes my words, poetry?
And I sit there with a pen in hand,
The parchment awaiting the kiss,
questions remain forgotten as I tell thee,
How, if, why, what, they are all poetry…