A Poem by Esme Waters
Real poets describe me as artless.
Me, someone who throws words onto the page
with very little grasp of poets past.
Real poets, they craft.
They, artists, have access
to a (the) special place.
I am not allowed to go there.
I am not allowed to pretend
to go there, without permission.
And they never give permission.
Permission is earned, in some ways.
In other ways, permission won.
Probably, no one will ever read this
which is okay, until you consider
that you are not the arbiter of me.
And I will.
Esme Waters is the pen name of a writer who wishes to remain anonymous; a writer who writes because he has to, not necessarily because he wants to.