I’m not a poet

and I promise you,

I don’t write poems.

My hand trembles,

My heart pounds,

trying to break free

when I pick up my pen

and the ink flows from its tip.

I don’t see words on the page.

I see blotches of blue ink

Spreading across the paper-

the remnants of raindrops

after a violent storm

desperate to be absorbed

and disappear.

I stare at the mess I’ve created,

and my eyes well with tears.

I want to be Whitman,

and Frost,

and Shakespeare,

and Poe.

Hot, salty droplets roll down my cheeks,

and fall silently

beside the splattered ink.

My eyes are too foggy to see it.

The salt water of my tears sinks slowly

into the bright yellow page,

blurring the lines of the ink blotches.

They mix, and they collide, and

a hundred shades of blue begin to dance,

pirouetting across the strictly lined page.

The most magnificent sea of

sapphire, opal, topaz, and diamond

flows across the paper.

More mesmerizing than the blue lagoon,

more daunting than the pacific,

more tranquil than a glacial lake.

The sight is breathtaking.

I wipe my tears,

and lift my watercolor masterpiece

to the window.

The sun shines through the page

as it glistens like the star-studded night sky.

I smile.

I’m not a poet

and I promise you,

I don’t write poems.