The poets

I envy the poets
The ones who can disentangle
the threads of their thoughts
And smoothen them out on paper
Each word, each letter, each curve of their quill
laden with meaning, passion and emotion
These innocuous traces of ink
Do not mask the fervour
in the minds of the poets
I balk at their audacity
And admire their ability
as mine do?
I wonder, do their words ever choke them,
Do their ink-stained hands ever shake
and their eyes well up with ardour
as they put pen to paper?
Meanwhile, I yearn for the identity of
'This Sublime Poet'
Has their voice ever been swallowed by fear?
I ask myself: Am I a poet yet? Or simply a writer?
Or am I just someone who uses words to emote?
Do my poems have an essence?
A hidden interpretation derived
by reading in between the lines?
Or am I just one among countless others
who hide behind the artificities of language?
Do I possess any substance or do I lack it?
Am I the seed? Or the husk?
Or am I the fruit?
Albeit the one that falls to the ground, wasted?