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I am not a poet.
These words I scribble come in jumbles of chicken-scratch and mixed-matched lines
Bound and strung to the mound of the seething foreseen
Scraped together in hurried forms of dust and grime…
So,
This is NOT poetry, but as waves of woe and worry wave, I can’t help but see seas of sorrow and grave.
And as swallows swallow seeds of time, all is always under awe and away from mind.
And this cannot be poetry, however, the mere mirror of my message reflects in reasons, not rhymes.
But this “not poetry” is the red flags as read with rats are friends to foe of mine.
So,
this is not poetry, but, heed and hear of what I speak,
for flasks of facts lay underneath
this is not poetry, but I’d justly join the juggling circus,
Then wonder what will of words were worth it.
And
This. Is. Not. Poetry.
But they say I am off and over the train of thought led by society
But with truths entangled in trustworthy tangents,
A calling to chivalry and charisma in changement
In association to the words ill whisper to willows in woe
Never to see the light of day to those, friend or foe
And while these words I speak are soundly made to rattle the brain…
And while the stanza I commend may be rushing in like a train,
This… will never be poetry.
