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.
