The Imposter Poem by Michael Eyre

'Am I a poet? ' he ponders,
'Who says I've made the grade? '
'I surely need the right degree,
Be published, and be paid? '

The doubting voices grow louder.
His confidence they rule,
'Stand up the real poet' they hiss,
'Sit down, deluded fool! '

He looks round for the substitute,
But no-one takes his place.
The empty page stares back at him,
A bare and barren space.

He reads through all the jumbled notes,
He's jotted in his book.
The captured details that he's craved
Of every hand he's shook.

Thoughts tumble with half-worked ideas,
Head loud, his mind twitching.
Some scream, begging for attention,
Others quietly itching.

The room goes silent finally,
His brain starts to engage.
Words flowing out subconsciously,
Begin to fill the page.

He formulates the poem's plot,
Through re-write and delete,
The story's every twist and turn,
Takes shape upon the sheet.

With lines of vivid imagery,
Sound rhythm, and sweet rhyme,
The Imposter pens tirelessly,
A poem quite sublime.

He finishes, the burden lifts,
With joy his spirits sing.
No need for fame or flattery,
The poem's everything.