Where are you going, poet?
To the riverside, there
to sit on the bank and contemplate
the agony of the dying day.
I have to travel, far and wide
grasp the smiles and see the tears,
hold a pearl lying in its shell.
Why don’t you go out poet
and bathe in the laughing sun
or wear the moonbeams
in your hair to keep those tears away?
No, I’d rather sit in the dark,
hear the footsteps of a lurking evil
tearing souls apart.
Will you sit alone, poet?
Poetry is in words and books
reading alone can save the poet
read and learn,
and then unlearn
and use wise lines as your own.
Only then can one be poet.
Is it difficult to be a poet,
running around, finding poems
in arching rainbows and shining stars
or sit lonely, sombre and pensive
waiting for poetry to come?
I’d rather not be a poet
and paint rainbows in my heart instead.