A Confession

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,

Their work.

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

And scattered.

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

To learn

The reality of my own mediocrity.