Dear Mr Poet.

I admire your confidence.

The way you walk on stage and demand my attention with your silence.

Have my back ready for lashes, courtesy of your spoken word violence,

As you compose yourself, to breathe life, into words scribbled on scrolls

Little did we know, that you dug deep, into the bottom of your hearts’ hole

To stand before us and, bare your soul

Dear Mr Poet.

Contrary to popular belief,

Not all poets are born equal.

We can’t all paint beautiful paintings in the playing fields of our mind’s plain field.

It feels like the Lord overlooked us when he handed down his poetry graces,

I mean, You’re amazing.

Your words, have the ability to transcribe memories in hearts with no empty spaces.

The ability to transport me into the thoughts and places,

Of despicable beings, that do despicable things, to him, and she, and we.

Your words, put perspective, and help me realize that I may be a despicable version, of me

With, minion understanding of the trials and tribulations facing each step on the sole of our nation.

Your words, Mr Poet, help me see and believe Love.

The tango of your tangled Love webs my feet as I dance, and resist, while you dance, and persist.

Your broken heart, reminds me that Love isn’t always a two-way streak.

And sometimes Love is the peak, from which your heart will fall,

Into tunnels, of loneliness, and bitter hearts.

I don’t know what molasses are Mr Poet, but when you whisper those sweet words

Of encouragement, like redemption on Judgment Day,

I feel like an imprisoned Mandela seeing the light, on Freedom Day.

Dear Mr Poet, I don’t know if you know it,

But lately, your ego’s gotten in the way.

That thirty-minute self-intro you deemed necessary to bless us with seemed so irrelevant, it reeks of negligence, on your part

To your art, and your craft, it seems daft

That you would brag about merits and accolades

When true poetry has no awards.

But rewards in souls bared and shared.

Makes me wonder if your love for this is merely a façade.

And you’re chasing a lyrical high that was bestowed on you when you recited and standing O’s were endowed on you.

I wonder, Mr Poet, if your minds’ ever questioned why some of the most loved and renowned poems ever to grace us

Are synonymous with anonymous authors with no faces.

Shakespeare said “Don’t shoot the messenger”

But I’d shoot the messenger if he failed to bring home the message.

A preacher with no passage.

A hero with no courage.

A priest lying on the pulpit is a crime scene with no culprit.

I trip, I trip, I fall.

I need, I need, I call on Poets.

Dear Mr Poet!

I do not know if you know it.

But your audience misses you.

Like rain in the winter, we thirst for you.