I Am Not A Poet

I am not a poet. The illusion of it seemed too appealing to discard and hence along came some words, lines, even poems, but I am certain now they couldn’t have been poetry for I am not a poet; not even close to a drop of ink that some god awful poet used to draw monsters with.

A reporter maybe, but as my eyes feast on the horror that were my glorious published words, I reckon I am far from it. There is a rush about being a reporter, something exhilarating, orgasmic even, and once you’ve reached it you don’t want it to end. But as I read more and more of what I had been so proud of, I find the void in them deepening. Some lack life, others lack a proper choice of words (quite assured I haven’t learned that prowess yet) and some are just plain dumb, like the boring, abysmal concert review I once wrote; the only console being the concert itself, which made my review look like a little ecstasy pill.

A writer? I don’t know. What is a writer? Someone who belts out words and puts them down on paper? (wait, I shouldn’t let my mind wander into thinking that people still write on paper especially when I am typing this out in the magical Microsoft Word (all hail Bill Gates)), or is it someone who belts out his emotions, his heart, maybe a bit of his gut too in his words and splatters them all over paper for the world to read? What is the difference really? Words are just words, yet somehow there exists a discrepancy that is almost as vast as life and death. Am I a writer? I don’t know, but here I am writing.

I have always wanted to be a singer. It has proved to be quite an ambition now with my dying lungs and off beat vocals, but there is something about it that pleases me. No I don’t need a critic, I am my own worst critic and can tell when my rendition of a Black Sabbath song scares the dogs away, but I don’t want to sing Sabbath. I don’t want to sing about the devil and satan, or the intricate bonds between them, or how both are just as ludicrous as the idea of me winning in a fist fight with a grown man (wait correct that, a grown boy). I want to sing because I want to, just like I colored my hair blue because I wanted to. The grotesque part about this is how I never opt to do the things I want to do, it’s almost like the universe has me on a leash. Or maybe it’s my mind.

I don’t like conformity. I am however honest and will not dare to say I am the biggest non-conformist there ever lived, I am the furthest from it; but no not proud, the furthest from it. Conformity, it’s laughable. Conformity acts as a haven for all the chaos, injustice and malice there is. Conformity, it’s a bit like cancer, it multiplies and then slowly kills you.

Sleep and I have the oddest relationship. I want it when I can’t have it, and when I have it, I throw stones at it and scare it away like a stray dog. It’s here but I refuse to acknowledge its presence, I don’t have my stones, not even pebbles, but I wish to drive it away. I don’t need solace in sleep, I don’t get it. I have nightmares and not the kindest ones. It’s ironic how I drive sleep away and still crave for eternal sleep. The Gods are probably hysterical with laughter; I can be quite the comic.