I am not a poet.

Every night I gaze at those tiny bright stars
that barely shed light on the dark sky
as I try to capture their unruffled passion.
What meaning do those sparkles bring?
Mesmerized by the purple tones of
The jacaranda flower.
Sip my coffee laced with cream.
I peacefully contemplate.
Then I struggle for words to portray them
as I scribble on another page
of my worn-out notebook
once in a while glancing
at my half-filled waste bin.
I write
and write
and write
but only to end up with unpolished verses
worthy only of raised eyebrows
and wrinkled foreheads.

I am not a poet.

Tonight, I closed my window
no longer
yearning to see those tinny bright stars.
Cuddled by the serenity of the night,
I looked deep within myself
and consoled my wrecked soul.
I scribbled

and this time
emotions poured
words flowed out

And a poet was born.