A few weeks ago, I met someone-

a magickal traveling salesman. 

When given a prompt, idea, or phrase

he would weave the most beautiful,

gut wrenching tapestry of words

that seemed to speak to the soul of the client. 
 

i watched as those around me

went to visit the poem peddler, one by one. 

And then I watched as they returned, 

magickal bespoke secret-filled envelope clutched in hand. 

i spied their private moments as they read-

hands covering their mouths, tears welling in their eyes,

contented sighs followed by the inevitable 

"you should visit him" and so I tried. 
 

i thought for hours as customers came and went,

from both his typewriter and my tent. 

i thought and thought, making idle conversation 

whilst contemplating my own existence-

how was it that these people just knew instantly

what they deemed worthy of such an experience?

some days I can't even convince myself that 

my experience here on earth, or even that I am real.

and so I pondered and I wondered and I thought. 

I thought of things that other people I knew might ask for. 

 

i stood there, thinking, rethinking, and overthinking 

again and again and again until I realized- 

commissioning bespoke poetry is a deeply personal thing. 

in order for it to be meaningful and evoke emotion,

it had to come from someone who truly knew themself. 

and as I processed this, I realized that I would never 

come to the conclusion that anything was worthy 

of the poet's time, ink, and paper- because I wasn't. 

I had never had the confidence to even dream 

that anything that came from me could inspire 

anything as romanticized as the words of a poet.

 

and so I left empty handed but at least I had understood. 

i neglected to take his information, card, or number

but I hope that I may see him again someday 

and when the time comes, I hope that I will finally

have thought of something worthy.