This Is Not a Poem


This is not a poem 
Because I am not a poet
A poet is a blacksmith who can craft my soul into words
A line into something I feel
A poet dips their pen into the inky darkness of the night sky
Scrawls their words on flesh and make the ordinary new again 
A poet kindles a fire inside me
and that light fills me and empties me in the same moment
A poet is a magician 
The poem is their spell and I am hopelessly enchanted
My eyes made bigger, brighter
Arms longer, stretching out for things I didn't know I needed
I've become simultaneously larger, seeing over things that stood in my way, 
And smaller, humbled beneath the enormity of my world
I have laughed with Seuss in the playground of my childhood
Chased Teasdale and trailed Millay through the thicket of my adolescence
I have shouted my grievances alongside Clare
And conversed with Eady in quiet murmurs
But I am not a poet
And this is not a poem 
Because I wouldn't dare compare the linguistic triumph that is poetry 
To anything my child-hands could make
Instead, I keep pick their words from the air in a library, a coffee shop
And keep them in my pockets like spare change
They slip from my tongue as though they were my own
I am not a dancer because I like the sound of music
but I guess that's never stopped me from moving to the melody
I am not a poet
But I think I'd like to be


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