is it because i steal slates off tales
scribbled by scribes of ages not stale
which drew them to the world as sages;
and i claimed what they owned
only to be known and renowned
as a one from their homes,
that you now call me a poet?
.
if i am a poet,
why not i being able to wheel your will
to have the throb of your heart brewed
by strikes on drums from my witty hands
when i play your feet these rhythms
from my wide pitched vocal orifice,
in fine falsettos and trimmed tenors,
as you sing me back sultry sopranos?
.
why not i being apt and adept
enough for you as the butterfly
blooming your petals with my pollen
and being the sun that torches
your garden of glamour and glitz,
and the rain that whet your roots
into glees of growth in their youth
and make your frail floral heart
grow fonder?
.
why not i being the metaphor
of cones for your sweet scoop
of various flavors in differing hues,
for you to have a taste, and lick
off the creamy love my ice have
for the million cells of your taste buds
like my lips crave your supple skin
when you ooze the smell of light
through the tunnel of my nostrils?
.
why not i being the symbolic bee
that would fly on a gliding spree
in merry-go-rounds and carousels
to hover over and around your honey
and preserve your addictive sweetness
with my protective honeycombs?
.
until i can delight in the victory
that would epilogue the mystery
of running my star-struck race
through the lines of my quill-ink
towards honing every bit of you
in the grasp of my charming poesy
like a regal owns his royalties
…that you may call me a poet.
.
but for now, i am not a poet
……….i only enslaved a pen.
