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.