A poet’s ritual or how are you one?
tell me
what makes you a poet?
do you write
broken lines like these
’til they merge into a recognizable pattern?
do you do that everyday?
do you marvel
at the complexities of life
enough to draw some magnetic images
feeding your ignorance and the masses?
are you ever satisfied
with what you’ve finally identified?
do you smile at nature
or cry with the birds?
do you follow the stream of loneliness
gnaw at your sense of hopelessness?
cringe at the future and the demure faces
while your heart perpetually races?
tell me
what makes you a poet?
is it the silly rimes?
the ones you conjure
in the dark corners of your mind
or is it something much closer to divine?
maybe you just know
intrinsically how the poet goes
maybe it’s conveniently hidden inside
and found when you bridge your soul’s divide
we are poets because we simply are
otherwise, we would have not made it this far.
