tick. tick. tick. Boom.

I was a poet and I knew it. I knew it back then even
when I did not put down my paper to pen.
And when I did, it would shake the dirt from my sins.
Shake the man in me. Who was growing to be.
One who was striving to find his dignity and integrity.

One who was looking at the world and wondering.
What he could do when he was nothing much more than a
child of the middle class with dreams of a world with no class.
No Ivy League pedigree to pull from you see.
Just an endless sea of dreams to dream before me.

Just a state college degree in painting was received.
And after, I was speechless as my words did not grow.
Did not flow. Where concepts were hard to show.
But there was romance to put the paint brush
to canvas to dance with this. To make a universe of sorts with
every mark made leading me towards unknown parts.
But was this an empty verse on this canvas before me?

It was quite lonely at times when the poet in me
would ask to be seen. He would guide my hand,
me not knowing what he was to reveal or the time we
would steal from a guard duty or a meal.
To be sitting on a night shift making my words drip
with my truths. Not to be self evident to any others.

For they were mine and mine alone. They made
me a better man to observe them and pay homage
to the poet inside my hand. Painting with words.
Possibly painting my own proverbs. My hand has been
guided. I am closest to infinity when I sit down to acknowledge
this force inside of me that makes me, more than me.

I know poetry is a weighted word. To me it conjures visions
of studied men who know this as craft and history and
seek to make it such a mystery. But there is no mystery
to this verse I write before thee. This is poetry.
This is not spoken word as these words will never be
spoken. They might be choken but not by me.

I am a poet and I know it. Because this is where the force
inside of me is closest to self discovery. Where the outside
world of politics and the inside world of lunatics, ticks off
like a time bomb waiting to be heard at a town hall,
strip mall Americana apple pie.

Where it all makes sense if just for a second before…
tick. tick. tick. Boom. Poetry.


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