A Realization Upon Meeting Poeticus Mundi

I met a man this past weekend.
He is an established poet,
Intimidating in pictures,
Published and locally known,
Intriguing and interesting,
And he made me feel so small.
There is an aura about him,
A power I cannot describe,
An internal glow so warm.
In his company I cowered,
Feared to mention any of my work;
I cannot consider myself a poet,
Nor a true writer or artist -
I am simply a vessel through which emotions gather,
Coalesce and whirlwind together,
Condense down around my soul,
And pour out in the form of written sound.
He is all that and more:
A daring soul with more courage than I,
One to take the stage,
Sharing what he has,
Giving all that he is;
While I, the coward that I am,
Sit at home,
A slave to my inner mind,
Hoarding the words that escaped,
The emotions that fled my internal cavern,
Keeping my works to myself.