#amiapoet

Im hoping You’ll see me

through the crack of Your door.

Waiting to think of a reason to open it

You

left it open for a reason.

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