I May Not Be
I may not be a gardener for I have not a garden
but a lot sometimes arid with a shortage of rain
and no flowers to bloom in the spring of my life
but the dry crawling weeds of the leftover pain.
I may not be a healer if my wounds remain open
don’t know how to appease my own restless soul
while I count all my years with the passing of days
letting memories haunt me as I get lone and old.
I may not be a lover when I’m missing such love
that in wishes is drowning in a glass of red wine
and in verses my dreams I can hide within words
with nobody to claim me or no one to call mine.
I may not be a poet when I’m lacking the prowess
transforming emotions if the muse sometimes call
and when try to remember all the things that I was
I could sadly consider I may be none at all-
“We’re all pretty bizarre. Some of us are just better at hiding it, that’s all.”
― John Hughes, The Breakfast Club