My Ordinary Human-Poet Words

I'm starting now to wonder
when my words will get cut off.
When will they fall down,
in endless tumbling,
making no sense, or less
than they already don't.
When will my fingers not be brimming
with inspiration...?
Or really, just boredom.
Your words carry the weight
of something significant.
Mine are small, like myself.
With strength and dignity,
but still lacking
the worldly qualities that yours bear.
If they were people, my words
would stand in ordinary people clothes
with tattered jeans and a t-shirt;
Just standing there, fumbling with
his hands.
Not really knowing what to say,
but saying things at the right moments,
or maybe
not at all.
And yours?
Yours would stand there, dignified,
dressed in fashions fit for professionals;
A lovely looking man, I would say.
Speaking with eloquence,
lighting the room up
as mine looked on
in a silent wonder.
Not jealousy, no. Just wonder at
the way his words fall
so gently down.
And it would make me wonder.
Yes, like I so often do.
Am I writing for the world to see?
Am I a preacher, or poet teaching leader?
Or am I just writing
for the sake of it
for
myself?