I am a poet. Writing is what I do. I weave stray syllables Floating meaningless in abyss Of oxygen and CO2. I weave a web of words, I thread them together with Inspiration, Respiration. First one word forms, then Three—twenty—thirty-two. My spiderweb of syllabic silk is Splayed to entrance, Mesmerize, Bury mental roots— To churn the dirt within oneself, Replace the weeds with truth. For my web is built of raw blisters, Ash and cinders, Blackened soot, Elbow grease and well-worn work boots. It is smattered with glassy beads of sweat Glistening like spring’s morning dew, Born of rent emotions and a heart Cleaved into two, Sutured back together with Needle, thread, and Elmer’s glue. It was pain that gestated voice— Pain that taught the pen to stab the loose-leaf through— But when the pain fizzled out, I learned that joy can breathe words, too. Now, I am a poet, And writing is what I do.