A Poem For Your Thoughts

Am I a Poet?

I'm not much of a poet, though I write plenty of poems to punctuate my pointed feelings festering inside, that spring up like fast food chains on a Sunday drive. 

I like to imagine what it must be like to be a poet. To have phrases settle in your head like sifting sediment of sand that can craft a castle all but planned to your emotions on command.

I often wonder what real poets enjoy.  The type who twist your heart upon a string dangling a dozen or so feet from complete obliteration with the power of potential iteration.

What separates a poet from fan who writes of poems? Does a poet take the quill of mental still and dry the ink while he thinks emotions spilled in sickly swill to reside upon a page, residue fully spewed?

Are poets more than clever, do they posses a hidden lever that rains a range of inspiration denser than the medication that hangs darker than temptation to permanent vacation beyond living's provocation?

How does one become a poet, I ask because I'm lost. I've written of the pain, of the strain and all the thoughts inside my brain. Of love and laughter, wicked memories and what's after the chapter of disaster, the epilogue of happily ever sadder, compared it to the weather and whether or not I forgot about what it means to be a poet, and wouldn't you know it...

I want to be a poet, 

but right now,

I don't have the words to show it.