A Poet

Contrary to what people may think,

I am not a poet.

I write my poetry, yes,

But I am not a poet.

I am much more inclined to shout,

I am not inclined to writing lyrical verses.

I prefer to fight,

Even when I know I am not going to win.

I don’t like writing poetry,

It’s simply the only way I can say things without saying them.

I can write about a mysterious figure all I want,

I cannot tell my mother to go fuck herself.

I can write about the peaceful slipping away into sleep,

I cannot yell at the injustice of not being able to kill myself.

I cannot write drafts to you,

I am far too scared of sending them on accident.

I cannot read poetry on accident.

Anything I say is on purpose,

With a clear voice,

And lyrical tilt,

Words falling off of my tongue,

In a way that takes hours to perfect.

I cannot speak normally,

Words simply choke me up,

My tongue only an obstacle.

I can shout all I want,

Mindless truths that were never meant to come to light.

Words forcing themselves out of my throat,

I am not a poet.

Words have never come to me easily,

But when they are all I have,

I suppose I must be a poet.

I suppose words must be what make me whole.