I am a poet 

I scrape the insides of my mind

Excavate old wounds, old scars

For the pleasure of others

I 

Write so furiously

A thunderstorm struggles to keep up

I writeandwriteandwriteandwriteandwrite

Until I 

Stop

Dead in my tracks

Out of words

Out of food for the soul

And then I start again

When words come to me

I don’t write poems

Poems write them

Selves 

I am merely a vessel 

Through which the indescribable wonder of the universe

Is condensed into a mere few lines

Finding the EXACT word

Or the specific simile 

Or the arranged alliteration

To create emotion

Tears, laughter, anger, sorrow, joy 

All these I can create

Magic 

I hold the key to the soul of the world

This 

Is the mind of a poet.