Two Poets Poem by James Green

The list of names in my hand made me go mad,
Poets they were, yet all a merry lad;
Candles and logs they had steadily burnt,
And their wax and soot was now intensively learnt.
To me words, just weren’t words,
They meant more, yet I had to use them just as my ace cards;
I held my hand down, ignominious
It was, yet in pouring out words I wasn’t parsimonious,
But they would never be the same, they were completely lost,
Unlike those of that Wordsworth and Frost.
Can I ever write words unlike theirs, yet the same?
Can I ever be inspired, not just by some innocuous dame?
Deeper I wondered, greater were the questions-
Piles of green or blue?
I could not answer even after prolonged sessions
Of questions and answers, to my body and mind,
Only time will tell as now answers I cannot find.
I wondered if they shall ever read me;
whether ever forever a poet I shall be?
Yet to the world of poetry, the King I can never be,
As there shall always be Frost and Wordsworth,
Who like Shakespeare shall never suffer the pain of rebirth?