There is something about being a poet that always makes you feel like you can mould the world, shape it to suit yourself. You can build a paradise with words, and erase it just the same. You can join two lovers, let them dance in the moonlight, soak in the rain, then without warning, set them on fire from whence their love is snatched. Sometimes you are the sadist who sets up a bouquet of thorns in the morning, and you watch as love bleeds. But sometimes, you are the romantic who lays out a path of red roses leading to a lover’s lair in the evening. Sometimes, you push harder, you go over the edge, until everything is laid bare. But sometimes you hold back, you tease, you reveal only little by little so the story never has to end. You are black, sometimes you are white and sometimes you are in between the fifty shades of grey.
Sometimes, you are mute, looking for your next big hit, the great masterpiece. Sometimes, the words flee and you stare at a blank hole inside your head, at your blank screen. And when you type, your words taste like sawdust in the mouth, they taste like crap. Sometimes, you beat yourself up, thinking that maybe you can no longer create the world you want. Maybe you got lucky the first time, maybe you are not just a good poet. Trying to live up to Frost or Dickinson, chanelling Maya Angelou but always falling short. Trying to rhyme, cleverly but all you end up with is log and dog. Perhaps you are not a poet, you are only experimenting. Perhaps all you’ll ever be is a poetaster – what a terrible word for a struggling poet. Then in a moment, a sudden rush of words, feelings and you begin to craft the world anew. Once again you are the puppeteer with the power of the pen, the world is at your mercy and you ravage it, then you soothe it, you love it before you hate it. After all you are the poet.