Not A Poet

I'd do anything to write—
poetry.
I'd trade the world,
I'd even sell my soul.

So that's a reason I am not—
a poet.
If I trade the world,
what would I write about?
sans trees, sans flowers, sans bees.

If I have no soul,
how would I bleed black about
my yearning soul.

No world, no soul.
No sonnets about hearing your
laughter for the first time.

No poems about me
watching myself in your eye,
so devastatingly in love.

So I sit here,
in smudged ink.

No dreams of being a poet,
only dreams of you
with leaf in your hair.