Is being a poet a testimony or a moniker?
Am I a poet because children laughing makes me sob or that I can’t eat sushi without thinking of ways to compare a tuna roll to the broken relationship with my sister?
How about the fact that in a room bursting of happy, I will grip my sadness to my chest like a suckling baby girl? She is the stimulus behind my every word and my heart has broken and ached and filled and emptied and stopped and raced more times than I can count.
Or I’m not a poet at all.
Too vague and too metaphorical.
All like and not enough pun. Not enough reach in my voice as if all writing must be verbal, must be microphone loud, must be bang crash whack.
I am not.
I am stuttering and sloppy.
Always a he, him, love lost, love story, love wanted. Always devastation, a bed, and legs, and skin and heart something. Wishful orgasms, phantom lips. Without detail or exact to go with my unpublished and unknown.
I am survival at its heaviest.
A relic born before the bridle of poetry being anything other than what seeps out of you when life is grand, or blows, or both at the same freaking time. When life is taken, or new, when love is the only thing that gets you out of bed in the morning, when it is the reason you can’t get out, or when it is lying next to you.
Poetry is your letter to the universe.
You decide what that makes you, and I am a poet goddamnit.