I may be a poet, but does that mean I'm a machine?
Generating stories and tales, simply out of routine?
There are no programmed instructions written within my head,
In fact, if I were indeed anything, do know that I'm dead.
I may be a poet, but if I were a machine, as you say,
My gears would be rusted, long past the good, old days,
My metallic sheen unpolished, red like the long spilled blood,
Of my shattered hopes and dreams, buried deep down within mud.
I may be a poet, ballpoint pen equipped in 'automated' hand,
But does that mean that I am no pursuer of my other demands?
Assignments, quizzes, tutorials galore,
My stomach does quiver at the thought of even more.
I may be a poet, but I'm done playing this game,
Enslaved not by the audience, but of my own ridiculous shame.
"You'll lose readers, they'll hate you!" screamed my self-esteem.
"If you wait long, you're a goner! Now go be mainstream!"
I may be a poet, but I've lost all my words,
As my inner self pounces, my heart aching and hurt.
The conflict is wild; it tenses and screams,
Until I am a victim to its merciless regime.
I may be a poet, and I am scared; I am lost,
In this self-hurting cycle, I beg my fingers to remain crossed,
For my liberation, my escape - to be finally be set free,
Until one final day, where I found lock and key.
I may be a poet, blessed with knowledge on language,
To know 'my' was not a noun but a possessive adjective.
"Self-esteem" was mine to uphold; I was the master,
Turns out it's funny, how in fact, I had created my own disaster.