Forgive me, friends,
For I have deceived you.
I have a confession to make.
I am not who you think I am.
I am not even who I think I am.
There is no newness of spirit
Or fiery flair within me.
Nothing shines in my eyes
Nor my heart.
I am grey, and dull,
And a copy,
Of the most miniscule things.
I bleed wit and knowledge
From the veins of others,
And inject it like a drug.
I am no inventor.
I think of writers of old,
Romantic heroes of a bygone age –
A renaissance of beauty
That I would die to live in.
I absorb their words, their creations,
Yet it is not enough to love.
Love is for the fainthearted,
The whimsical and fanciful –
The people like me,
Devoid of substance
But full of the notions of dreams.
I have no rhythm or rhyme,
Much like this poem.
I am inconsistent
I am nothing compared
To the others around me.
They know every detail about the writers of old,
They record their lives, their thoughts
And their sentiments.
Every notion political and historical,
Sociological and psychological,
They can tell me.
And my friends, here comes my confession.
I understand little of what they speak.
I nod along and insert what limited knowledge I have –
Make it appear as though it is some small thing, only the surface, when really
It is the only seed I have to sow.
There is a world, a universe of knowledge around me,
Of words, of histories, of novels and poems,
And I occupy but a small corner.
Not even a corner.
I am a speck of dust in that corner,
Flat against the skirting board, invisible.
And there I will stay
Until I learn
The reality of my own mediocrity.