Tuesday, February 18, 2014

Words I have

But the words I have fall flowery and short
Which is the way I like it. 
An offensive play to keep others guessing
Where I am and where I will go. 

I look around and see the books of words circling and deep
And I do the unthinkable:
I am not a writer, I say, because I don't write like they do. 
I write things I would say
Thoughts to help me think
A trail of breadcrumbs from my head
To my heart. 
I don't write like the poets so I'm simply not one. 

My voice is enough to make me poet, my beating heart and strong legs and 
loud laugh at all the unpredictable punches of life, 
the ferocity of love in me for the brevity of experience and 
arms and 
breathing it all IN. 

I live, therefore I prose. 
Yes, to all of that. 

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