Failure of a Poet - My Second Greatest Shame

This one is open for constructive critics, but please be aware of the effects your comments may have on other readers -- Think of what kind of impressions your comments will leave on other readers.

"I am not a poet",

Let's face it,

Has that thought ever crossed your head?

For me, it exists, like a puff of mist,

Even during my showers, 

The mist still lingers,

You may simply disregard it as a fog from showers,

But I know for certain that it is my eternal reminder,

That I am not a true author,

And I can be one -- never;

I've got no rights,

To stay up every night,

To spend days dreaming of the unseen,

Whose beauty is so pure and pristine,

But when the moment for inscription has come,

But penway, my writing, becomes numb,

Do you understand that feeling?

Of being constantly held down by a ceiling?

To pen their stories,

I must know their worries,

The kind of Knowing, that you might understand,

The kind of Thinking, with your head in the sand,

Unseeing with mortal eyes, but I can sense them, 

The stories unfold, awaiting someone to write them,

I see a girl who sits by herself crying at a bus station,

While the dampen clouds dump on her the rain of mortification,

And unlike the romantic novels you adore,

This girl did not find the happiness she had sought for,

You can see her too, can you?

If not, close your eyes tighter,

I see a boy who is missing parents,

Who has never found his life contentment,

And unlike the fairy tales you adore,

This little boy did not find the home he had sought for,

You can see him too, can you?

If not, close your eyes further,

I see a ferryman sailing without a customer,

With sorrow on his face, he paddles the Southern river,

And unlike the literature you adore,

He would never find a place to station his sorrows -- a shore,

You can see him too, can you?

If not, squint your eyes further,

I see a mother tending to her baby in a tipsy tent,

Under that chilly night, the warmth was what a blanket sheet lent,

And unlike the heartwarming stories you adore,

Only the baby -- Found the sufficient source of warmth they sought for,

You can see them too, can you?

If not, please, continue to indulge further,

I see an old man dying on a bustling street,

Without anyone bothering giving him even a sheet,

While lines of motorcycles passing by on highways,

I think... I still remember the scene so clearly, on that day,

You... can't see him, can you?

It is not your fault, darling -- I forgot him too,

But this sorrow is mine only to tend, no others,

After all, I've long ceased to be that daydreaming toddler,

And I have just one duty,

That is to craft sorrow into beauties,

To write better endings for tragedies,

Woven with majestic rhymes and melodies,

But how can I ever pen their moments rightfully...

When all I can do is write lines so Corny!?

I cannot carry the weights my people have left behind,

While my own sorrow is stacking up in lines,

Because I am pitiful, so very pitiful, my reader,

For I am a son who cannot grant happiness, to his own mother,

Nor the people who had inspired me to live on,

My once dearest friends, told me I was strong,

I never once doubt their words are wrong,

But I wonder, am I worth their earnest songs?

Tell me, darling readers, are they wrong?

Because I feel like I can never do rights, only wrongs...

And to put the title of a poet -- under my name,

That, my dearest audience, is my Second Greatest Shame,

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

My Greatest Shame is that I am no good person,

Both then and now, for everyone, I am their worst version,

I am not a good person, nor a decent man,

I am not a good girl, but an empty fish can,

I was everyone but no one's at all,

I walked the shoes of others', but know not of what they saw,

I am a failure of a being for my failure of kindness,

I used to be unable to compliment stars when they shine brightest,

Now I can, with a pen, but with only doodles,

Who would accept praises that are phrased like noodles?

Soggy, impotent, and wholly disgusting,

Reading through these verses surely had you cussing,

But after all, I am no poet,

And even if some may protest,

I know myself well enough to see,

I am a failure of who I could be.

And I wonder, what do you see,

In a coward, unsober, like me?

TELL ME, Reader! I demand satisfaction!

What do you see in a fool who speaks without actions?!

What do you see in a disfigured being,

Who has no voice nor way of knowing--

Their own fate, their own voice?

In this twisted game of Fate, I am a toy,

How I find directions on this foreign soil,

When in this life, I live as others' foil?

In an empty station, I am the sole streetlight,

Watching others going home, while myself belong to the night,

... So tell me, my sworn -- darling reader,

What is it about me that makes you think I am a writer?

- Leon / Stu. T.H. (December 7, 2023)

Author's Note

Made in a few spare hours of the day.

I'll be hopping back to writing Sapphic fiction and songs now if you don't mind -- It makes me warm and fuzzy inside.

Reviews

[Dave Brown]

I am inclined to think you are being too dismissive of your poetic capabilities
I am the 'not a poet,' person, rather being much more of a rhymer which I do mostly for fun and is less appreciated than is the word of the real thing,
You have a much more able imagination and seem at home with a wide variety of themes which I feel is more the mark of the real poet
So carry on being warm and fuzzy inside
It seems to work quite well Donny

[Stu. T.H.]

Thank you for your kind words, author Dave Brown.
Even though I have many aliases, being called Donny by other writers for the first time is also a delight.
But if you believe yourself to be 'not a poet's, I am also inclined to tell you a saying that has helped me when I was learning in Asia. In English, it goes like this: "Most famed poets didn't claim themselves to be poets nor writers, they simply love writing or spend a lot of time doing so. Only until others had referred to them as poets, may them realize they had been one."
So please, don't downplay yourself, author Dave Brown. Thank you for your visit.

[Arundass TP]

A beautiful theory on Poets and poetry. I think it has something to do with behavioural sciences. Good poem friend.

You are a Poet,

[Stu. T.H.]

Thank you for your visit and kind praises, author Arundass TP. It's great seeing you around.