I put words on paper. 

But I'm no poet.

For to be a poet,

Would mean to bare,

All that I, 

Have spent my life,

Running away from.

I'm no poet. 

I put words to paper;

I write what I know

Will elicit a response,

That will be favourable,

To the serotonin, I seek. 

I'm no poet,

I'm just a coward. 

A coward who  cowers,

Beneath thinly disguised,

Words. 

Words that convey meaning,

But not to me. 

I write rhymes,

And silly lines;

Couplets,

And God knows what else;

Just to get a rise,

From all who read these lies. 

I'm no poet,

And I don't think,

I ever will be;

This veil behind,

Which I hide;

It's comprised,

Of rhyming lines,

And metaphors.

I write of facades,

For writing is one. 

I'm no poet,

Coz I'm afraid.

I'm simply terrified,

Of all I hide. 

What if my soul I bare,

And no one cares? 

I'm no poet.

I simply put words,

On paper. 

I'm quite the faker,

For while you read,

These foolish poems;

And think to yourself,

I'll hide my soul,

And lock it away;

For you won't find me,

Through any of my poems.

A poem on not being a poet. Ah, the irony.