Am I a Poet (or a smash burger)?
Am I a poet? Because I scribble nothing words on all the pages of my notebooks.
Because my pen is out of ink so that I’m carving words on paper.
Does that make me a poet? Or wannabe?
Am I a poet? Because I revel in nature and write about how the sun falls like raindrops.
Because I see the wind and hear moonlight and spirits whisper like angels.
Does that make me an artist? Or a mental patient?
Am I a poet because when I’m home alone at night I pace around an empty house.
Shadows trade words with me and inspire my creations, and poison my mind.
Does that make me like Poe, or Gacy?
I asked if I’m a poet! I stand on tall buildings and imagine what falling would be like.
The wind would race through my hair, then SPLAT! I’d fry up like a smash burger on concrete.
Does that make me like artists? Or should I see a therapist?
Do artists see Therapists? Or is that what their art is for?
I ask my reflection in the mirror. He just smiles and laughs and points at me standing there.
Does this make me an artist? Or just high?
Are you a poet for reading this? Am I poet for owning “Leaves of Grass”?
Is a priest a priest because he prays? Or is that too, poetry in some way?
If a poet writes poems, and a priest prays, then I guess I’m both Dickinson and the pope!
I’ll step back from the ledge, and ask my reflection to stop laughing
And if he doesn’t stop, I’ll just laugh right along because I’m a damn poet.
