I'm not a poet; I simply talk in my sleep, write down my thoughts and decide what babble to keep. I listen to my words and discover what meaning from them I can reap.
But if the poets hadn't died off choking on their anti-depressants, then maybe I could have joined their leagues, because if I were one, I'd know exactly what kind I'd be.
If I were a poet… I'd write about you and me, traveling the world and the sights we'd see. I'd write about what you've done to me, how you've changed me. Taken a boy and turned him into a gentleman, and how we ran when the nighttime grew close, ran until we hit the ocean's coast.
But I'm not a poet; I don't think I'll ever be.
Well, I'm not a poet; I'm merely a dreamer, diagnosed with misanthrope's fever. I've got bias in my veins and prejudice in my brain, but I get through, at least I think I do.
But… if I were a poet, I know exactly what kind I'd be. I'd be one of love, one who could never judge, but forever care about you and your future, whatever that entails, because love never fails and compassion always prevails!
But of all things, I'm a not a poet. I wish I could be, but that's simply a future I cannot see.
Hey, I'm not a poet. You should know that by now. After all, I'm just a singer. I sing about good, I sing about bad, all in hopes that the troubled thoughts won't linger.
But you know, if I were a poet… well, I'll be blunt, I'd write about you, and all the good you do. How you saved a young old fool from his suicide bed, how you brought him back from the perimeter of the dead.
I'd write about us.
I'd write about death.
I'd write about glory.
I'd write about everyone's living breath.
But I'll tell you once more… I'm not a poet. Not that I'm below it, but I just have the mind, if you know me, that's something easy to find. Just because you write rhyming lines, it doesn't make you a poet.
But if I were a poet…