ALWAYS THE POET, NEVER THE POEM
I have spent lifetime with ink on my hands
Craving love into silence ,
Writing fire into those who never burned for me
I am the architect of aching ,
The voice behind a thousand tender lines
But never the subject
Never the flame.
They come to me broken and I make them beautiful,
I gather their ruins with my bare hands
and dress it in metaphors,
Turn their shadows into stars ,
Their indifference into symphonies
And then they leave,
Whole.
Unaware of the fact that they were only echoes in my bones.
I bleed in stanzas,
Offer my heart in syllables,
But no one reads me like I read them.
No one pauses at my pauses,
Or ever wonder what I meant to say
Between the lines I never wrote.
I am always the one watching
Always the one weaving gold , out of someone else's dust.
I give my soul to the page
and they call it art but never love.
They quote my longing yet do not love me
They highlight my sorrows
And never ask where it hurts.
I am always the poet.
The giver.
The observer.
But oh, how I have longed to be the poem.
To be held the way verses are held,
To be read slowly,
Tenderly, again and again.
To be underlined,
To be memorized,
To be just felt.
I script the very ache I crave ,
And call it healing.
But god ,
Once , just for once
I want to be written with trembling hands,
Held like a secret too precious for air,
Loved not for the beauty I give
But for the quiet sorrow that I carry.
To be the poem, the muse ,
Splattered with ink on a paper by someone.
But I am always the poet,
Never the poem.
The hands , not the heart.
The voice, not the vow.
The ink,
But never the reason it spills
~lostsoul