Poets are people too

Beautiful--not always

Kind--not usually for

They say what is on the tip

Of your tongue that you

Cannot, will not give voice to

Honest truths untold for fear

Poets are brave even when afraid

Beautiful I am

And in the sunset

Sweet whispers find their way

To my love's ears

Poets are people too

Gods with the pen, all too

Human when they close

Their eyes for they dream

What cannot be and it makes

Them long for what is not

The perfect world, the

Love perfected

The extinct resurrected

Beautiful I am

And when I salute

The risen sun I

Give thanks for all

That is to come

Poets are people too

Beautiful--sometimes

Kind--perhaps

Strange--to some

Understood by a chosen few

Do I look like a poet

To you?