Becoming a poet

I wish I were a poet, with superpowers to persuade moods, cajole words and bend them to my will. I would massage and juxtapose them, and infuse them with special meanings. With brazen sleight of hands, I would summon verbal images to gather possibilities out of thin air. I wish I were a poet with a blank canvass. On it, I would freely paint secret desires. I would use it to sketch deep, enduring expressions that flow from the flushed giddiness of my pen and its predilection for falling in love. I wish I were a poet conjurer, a whisperer and grand scavenger of words. I could convince them to tag-team with my mind to live vicariously between the lines and to shape beautiful poems that bring love to life on paper. I wish I were a poet, I would try to capture the vicissitudes of the human condition. I would hold up a magnifying glass not to reveal weaknesses, but to highlight our common journey. I would paint it in syllables with clean verbal brush strokes and animated metaphors. If only I were a poet, I would wax lyrical about life and love and deploy the curious lenses of my eyes' camera, like impatient paparazzi to invoke spells that preserve love’s magic. And if that were at all possible, I could finally stop wishing wishes I would become bolder and just allow my pen to become a beneficiary of words’ true beauty.