I Am A Poet And I Know It

For the last week or so
I've been desperately trying to write me some decent poems
For some unknown reason they have not been forthwith
But I'm refusing to quit

Writing poetry for me has been second nature
Albeit not part of my life's plan
But when an awareness of one's ability is so strong
You can't turn your back on it you must make a stand

But something has gone awry of late
I've started half a dozen but have been forced to stop halfway
What am I supposed to do
Put down my pen and paper and just accept my fate?

That's something I've never excelled at
Patience has never been my virtue
But until I know the cause behind my point of concern
WTF else am I supposed to do

Did I ignore my gift for too long
Leaving it to drift away far and wide
Could this be why I'm going through this adversity
Maybe I would have been a better poet
If I'd made classical writing my major at university

For a reasonably good poet, (a tag of appreciation which I've gratefully worn)
One couldn't think of anything much worse
There has to be a deciding factor
Maybe I've succumbed to some God awful writers curse

A more logical explanation would be writer's block
If memory serves me correct I believe I've had this once before
But it didn't cause me as much angst as it has this time
How did I manage to address it
Simple … I just chose to ignore

I've always had an inkling I had writing flowing through my veins
But I had no idea as to what extent
It wasn't until 4 or 5 years ago
That my passion for-writing took over
And would no longer allow me the ability to circumvent

When you find you are capable of doing something you love with ease
It can often be taken for granted
When oblivion and insignificance start to creep in
The consequence is disenchantment

I didn't realize how blessed I had been
Until I noticed this skill was beginning to disappear
Without even realizing it was happening
It slipped away inaudibly sight-unseen

50 years ago I wrote my first
I was in so much pain I had to get it out
So I said it all in a poem
After it was all done and dusted
It somewhat shocked and surprised me
As I look back now in hindsight over many years
I couldn't be more proud of my poeming history

The more I write in the here and now
The less I am concerned
The reason should be obvious
None of my bridges have been burned

It took this poem to make the proverbial penny drop
Forcing me to evaluate my position
I feel the need to share the outcome
Just because I reneged on a couple of poems
It wasn't enough to make me stop

With hand on heart I hereby humbly admit
My truth needs to be told
The proof be in the pudding, why did I loose the faith
I am a poet, (and according to those in the know, a pretty good one at that), and I damn well bloody know it