A free-verse poem about being merely a poet.

No blacksmith am I.
I cannot with forge, hammer,
and strength of arm
beat and shape metal
into magnificent items
of remarkable utility.

No carpenter am I.
I lack the skill to use
saws and screws,
hammers and nails
to construct graceful
creations from wood.

No potter am I.
I cannot mold objects
of function or beauty
with deft fingers
and learned hands
from wet clay
on a potter’s wheel.

No painter am I.
I cannot apply paints
to canvas to create
a picture that leaves
an impression on the soul
of those who view it.

I am merely a poet.
I have only my words.