The Closet Poet

The Closet Poet knows he’s a closet poet.
He knows he shouldn’t be one.
He knows his words are better than him.
He knows he needs to let them out.
He’s afraid they will be quite okay.
On their own. Without him.

The Closet Poet stays a closet poet,
Remembering the one time he did step out
And let his words have open lives.
He took the love they got or didn’t,
For love he thought was owed to him.
He threw a tantrum – so Ayn Rand –
Not as a creative secure in his craft,
But one who knows he’s unloveable
And seeks power in pouty blackmail.
The Closet Poet stays a closet poet
‘Cause he shuts his doors to Love.

The Closet Poet does peek at times.
He peeks at Love who sits right there,
Right outside his closeted home.
He knows she knows he knows she’s there.
He shuts the door before she smiles.
But not before he lets some words
Escape his darkness to her light.
She waits for him. He writes for her.
And this is quite enough for him.
The Closet Poet stays a closet poet
‘Cause he’s afraid he’ll lose this too.

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