Poets Make The Worst Lovers, Indeed (Part II) – By Word Maker

His words had failed him not, but his heart had, and so did his emotions. He was now what he never intended to be and worse off than he was before. He was not covered in guilt; no he was covered with fear. Fear of the unknown.

So picked up the pen that turned him into such a beast, and tapped it on his left index finger, as if to verify if it was fully inked. Then he sank into his imagination, wondering what had come over him. Shortly before now, he wasn’t a scribbler.

The words swirled to and fro in his mind. POETS MAKE THE WORST LOVERS – INDEED. Then the questions flowed like water from a striken dam. Why? Why do poets make such sore lovers. He knew not the answer, but he knew the questions well.

Who is a poet? he also wondered. Is it that dude who prides himself on the fact that he can blend and mash words together to his glee, or that solemn individual who cannot find full understanding from the world around him..

He was urged by these questions to write another piece, another component, another telling of the truth, another analysis, another…. He was now breathing hard and fast, his passion falling on the new state of being had had now become.

Here lies the words he did spill forth. That to all those who shall find that time t read it, may be as riddled as he is. But in all this, he just hoped someone had the answers to the questions and in effect, free him from this bondage; of being  a poet.


Shortly before now, I was no scribbler.

Shortly before now, I had no such platform

But a pen has changed my status;

This may be a metamorphosis.

But my words have not changed.

My conviction is still the same,

And this time round, I have more to give

For I have become like them.

Their inner-most beings reek of love

And of perfect affection, and of pleasure

But look at their faces,

And all you see,, is bland emotions

Oh how they herald being princes,

Knights in silvery shining armour;

Princesses and damsels in distress.

But we all know the truth.

You know cupid if fictional

But you hide behind his bow and arrow

To torment others with fallacy

And you yourselves go into hiding.

Poets why?

Why has your weakness become fear?

Why can’t you just love normally?

Just be natural.

And with these words, he grinned, feeling he had done complete and absolute justice to the issue at hand. Now he cared less if he was now a poet or not. For him, he has faced up to the truth, fully.

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