Grey Area

I would like to consider myself a poet

A wordsmith, a dreamer, a god

I would like to call what I write poetry

But the thing about poets

They are either tortured;

Depressed souls disguised

in beautiful metaphor and symbolism

Or they are transcendent;

They see the world bathed in

dappled, golden light

They see washing the dishes

As a place for worship

And poems as psalms

I would like to consider myself a poet

But I do not hide agony in simile

But I do not find beauty in the simple task of it

(despite my trying; I cannot find it)

So I am a fraud

Burying my head in the sands of work before me
 

I hide.



(NaPoWriMo prompt 3!! <3)