Dear who-ever you are,
thank you for taking the time to read
the words I almost refused to write
the words which lifted me up
while thinking that I do not deserve being lifted.
This is no poem. It is for you, who told me that I am nothing. How true it is, to a world full of artists and poets and writers and broken hearts that found comfort in writing, to a world full of art, I am nothing. Still, I am enough for myself. When my hands are bleeding and my soul is restless, I write to mend the broken pieces. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes I seek shelter underneath the poetry of other writers, the ones you named, the ones that sound so familiar, the ones whom I do not aim to be, the ones who have inspired me to be.
This is no poem. Are any of my writings poems? Do I consider myself a poet? What is a poem? Does poetry have boundries? Am I original? Am I the same as everyone else? Some questions have no answers. You, as a poet, will know best. I have yet not had the courage to say I am a poet, for my words seem so weak. But I am glad that you can, that you believe you are, what so many aim to be.
This is no poem.
Jehona Thaqi © this goes out to those who have told me that I am merely a copy of artists around the world.