I spilled my ink on paper
And this is what my pen did
People i know don’t know i constantly write
People i don’t know understand my language
So i shall squarely ask
Why keep my pen hidden
When all i want to do is write
Write even on my forehead

Write on glass walls
Write in blue moving clouds
I cannot call myself a poet
You call me a poet
After you have read my words
Conversed with my thoughts, emotions
Danced to the music
Of my brain’s grey matter
Or i shall remain a closeted poet
Just like sexual orientation
Discussed widely yet not grasped
So is the mind of a poet
A mind fuelled by plenty words
Ignited by the world of poetry
Satisfied by rhymes with motions
Calmed down by a drink of verses
My blank paper is drowning in ink
But my pen won’t stop engraving on it
Should i call myself a poet
Not until you have read my life
Silently meditated on my words
Understood i have a need to write
A craving to pour words on paper
Inked and spotted and splattered
End of ink in my pen
Is no reason to stop writing
They scribbled on parchment paper
They wrote on papyrus reeds
They curved words on cold hard stone
Now i have pen and paper
A pencil would also do its own justice
Words being birthed inside me
Slithering down veins in my arms
Settling at the tip of my fingers
I cannot remain a closeted poet
My mind will not allow it
My heart will stop beating
If i leave the pages of my paper blank
So i write and write and write
Until i cannot write no more
This closeted poet has been re birthed

Copyright December 2015

Mulunga Alukwe


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