am i afraid to be a poet?

yes, very much

because to love it fully

may mean shut doors and hungry stomachs

ink splattered hands that are no good

for any manual labor

one useless pen

unable to feed mom and dad

an innocent form of expression

made devil by monetization

i dig the quill into my notebook

till it bleeds

but will it ever be anything other than words?

after all, dreams can’t feed families

and poetry is a balancing act

between poverty and starvation

but the pain is more than an empty fridge

am i afraid to be a poet?

yes, too often

because people will say things

like i belong in dark rooms

with my nose in between two pages

silent and closed off

unsociable madness

with braces and crazy hair

scrounging for the bread

pigeons desire because what else is left?

artists walk on high

on a tightrope strung across the skies

when they fall

it’s always from cloud 9

they can be crown jewels

until they lose their glimmer

then the world hides quivering whimpers

our work is loved when in the spotlight

but the pain is hidden when out the limelight

it is obscured when we

reach 32 degrees Fahrenheit

our melting point is not their vision of glamor

so we fall into empty arms

the world still sees us as flying stars

from their cars

on the road we once pinned with darts

to write about

both a creative and stain

we’re seen as beautiful

when our name first blooms

but people know not of the wilting

the petals falling

our works rotting

we were always brought out

for a one time show

nation’s prized goods for one season

then put away for no reason

the seed to creativity

is sown in the dirt

but how will it sprout

when there is doubt

society sings our praises

but sweeps the rest of the best

under the rug

unheard of and uncared for

unable to be seen as anything but flawed

because everything is mute about them

except their voice

am i afraid to be a poet?

i ask myself

yes, i think of it everyday

because life is a vertical plank

and poetry is a waterfall

rushing down from the top

letting it hit the ground

is when you become nameless

like the millions of other drafts

thrown into the sea of poets

because to be a poet is to gamble

to risk having a voice but not be heard

artists brim with words

and turn water into wine

god-like and respected

but penniless and their works arrested

i don’t want to be another Emily Dickinson

no Sylvia Plath greatness

this art shouldn’t grow in value

when the artist has died

i want to live the poet life

search for flickering lights

not rust away like a kid’s bike

now i must show it

or else i’ll blow it

before the world slips below it

i want to be a poet!

to pump my veins with stories

so i’ll live on forever

because this dying art will be revived

when the day thrives

for poets fear no shadows

until it casts over their writing

so am i afraid to be a poet?

i often ask

but when i speak for the unspoken

what else is there left to fear?