Poet

At some point, I think,
when I mentioned that I wanted to be a poet,
they said, later.
That I'm immature.
That this is just a phase.
That it'll pass.
And at some point, I think,
I started believing it too.
In 'later', I mean.

And so when you asked,
I said, 'Journalist'. Pragmatically, rationally.
Never realizing that those jagged lines with broken syntax,
Hold a strange fascination for me.
Never realizing perhaps,
That it had grown on me.
Like an intoxicating drug,
feeding on the pith of my creativity.
Never realizing
That it hurts to give up.

And once,
When you told me
I thought about law as well.
Thinking perhaps, sensibly, responsibly.
That I could be a poet later.

But I realize now,
poets are like drug-addicts.
Or at least, I am.
Craving cerebral pleasure,
and intellectual stimulation
of a different kind.

And sometimes, I think,
we're a little insecure too.
Lusting to be recognized as different and abstract.
For I'd often sit in class,
deliberately numb to the monotonous buzz
Of the teacher.
The putrid smell of burnt garbage
wafting in through the windows.
Leaning to my left my eyes narrowed,
As I stared into the distance.

And on lonely evenings
when it rains and the light is an unusual yellow,
standing by the window (In typical poetic fashion),
I think that I'm trapped
in a web of gnarled ideals.

Deliberately impractical.
Immature.
Crippled and cramped
by my own idealistic notions of poetic freedom.

Perhaps,
As much a victim of my own image
like the others I laughed about.
And then I wonder,
whether it's really poetry I care about,
or just the erratic, moody, brilliant
image of a poet
that matters most.