I came to think what is a poet?
even now I puzzle over it,
like a crossword I leave it on the side till later
but never seem to come back to it,
does it really matter?
The meaning used to be what the writer made
but now it seems to be the reader.

I recall reading Romeo and Juliet,
the worn pages read time and time again
too many times a year now neglected in the mind
a student always sighed,
but later on in life you stand in a bookstore
Romeo and Juliet sat amongst the poetry
and sigh once more on the thought,
but next to that you see the others
pages and pages of sonnets,
and mix and blend and erase the old
like memories you’ll create the new passages
and the old will come a shadow waiting to be told.

So like you I’ve become bored of poetry,
those books read too many times,
too many romance poems repeated,
that dust on the heart now settled with empty thuds,
and so I burn the old verses
watch them burn and dance in the flames,
but once they are gone I want them back,
so I begin to read other poets most of them which start
”I just begun to write a week ago”
because I know that these poems are clear
never aiming to be perfect to other's eyes.

And now I think what is a poet?
finally I’ve finished my crossword,
the weather changes season to season
come snow come sun come night,
it all has a certain order in this world
like me I learnt to breathe before I wrote,
but like seasons I did tend to change
and wrote instead of breathed,
because in words I finally knew
I am the poet
writing romance from my heart
so others can feel
what I have felt and learn
that living is a start.