I do not explain,
Nor do I document.
I do not deign to write
For the sake of anyone else.
For I am a poet.
I am a poet, not a writer; I write
Without reason, and reason without
The need to make sense. For that
Is why I write: on wry, on red, on wrists with roars
Of rages and ranges of words. Would I, I’d be world-less.
I am a poet: confused.
I am no weaver of the weak, no support of young or meek.
I am no Dr. Seuss, nor Poe, no trippy cat or raven’s foe.
Why should I prove myself to freaks who seek the peak of knowledge?
This heart belongs not in the canon;
Casting me on famine’s throne.
My life is not devoted to creation of a masterpiece.
My skills instead simply instill me with a sense of self
And purpose – though I know I have none.
No one has one – no one will win – there is no win or one.
One win – one real win won – would win us nothing: none.
Don’t you see?
I am a poet: not a writer. I am a thinker, not a guide.
Not a greedy fabricator, I am no Rowling, I am no Meyer.
I am a simple poet; I simply think;
I simply am.