i don't know and who would i ask, anyways

and what, really, am i?

this isn't the skin of a poet, 
the way my head turns, 
gaping neck and desperate fingers
and eyes wide open to the light

i find no solace in this title. 
mostly because i don't deserve it, i don't think. 
my poetry is rambling and shaky, 
like an old man's mutterings of time long past

and i don't know why i am what i am, 
don't know when i became a poet
or why at all i did

because this is the land of a dead man, 
fingers grasping at the gape of my throat
stretch marks thunderbolting across my thighs

and i, i have tried my goddamn best
to do anything but cry

mostly because i'm not sure i have any more emotions left to 

so here i go,
choking on soot and slit and smoke
and the words falling recycled from the farthest reaches of my fingers
like white fabric on red blood

and yellow sun soaked into my skin
my hands shaking in fists at my side

and maybe i'm not a poet

but maybe i am

so here is my soul and my heart and everything i am, 
poetry in fluid motion through my veins, 
an addiction to the way words taste. 

The End

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