(May 17,1970 / Atlanta, Georgia, United States)

You Are Not The Poet

You can never utter the lines
I do.
Never speak the stanzas I
So desperately want to hear...

It is hidden, buried, the dirt
Piled high on flaming pyres
Of past wishes and present
Circumstance.

You cannot, dare not, voice
The phrases of ancient languages of our love
Written in blood on your heart -
To do so brings pain.

Pain is the worn track from
Which you have tried to escape -
Life's illusion is so much gentler,
Easier,

The other path outweighs the present result.

You are not the poet -
But every glance into your eyes
Formulates the very thoughts
You suppress - into tea roses and midnight jasmine.

The deep cuts, the tears and agony
With one hand
While the other holds
Gauze and Bactine.

You cannot be the poet,
For every smile spells
The words only a soul in love can
Understand.

You write everything that is
Beautiful in this world to me
On a blanket of stars
With a single bat of your eye.

No, you are certainly not the poet,
My only true love.
You are not the weaver of words,
My darling,

You are the poem.

User Rating: 5,0 / 5 ( 2 votes ) 6

Other poems of JONES (126)

Comments (6)

The last line is the most beautiful. You really are great with words. A 10 from me for this Anjana
The title and the last line says it all! I really liked this one!
Tsani, beautifully worded and a wonderful sentiment... excellent! ! Brian
Gorgeous poem of what it takes. Too true to be ignored by any poets heart. 10 from Tai.
Splendid! Well done. I love it. Patricia Gale
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