NOT A POET I am not a poet. I speak through the lines that fill the page. Words I cannot utter, and thoughts that tumble, sometimes in rage, fly to the paper via the machine that is my voice in this modern age. My mind screams with the lexicon that fills my mind, but to no avail. No sound is made: my dumb throat is mute. I can relate no tale nor enter into debate, argument, discussion. Always, I fail to project the tones that once were strong, controlled, eloquent; enunciating words that could teach, advise, encourage. Confident, I stood as mentor, tutor and guide. Now, I fail, incompetent.