Am I really a poet if I don’t feel anymore?
If I flew up in the clear grey sky
and have been flying there aimlessly for seven full moons.
If words don’t escape my mouth
and my mind has fallen silent;
If sun has packed their bags and left its palace
giving an example to impressionable humans.
Am I really a poet if I sit in front of a computer,
candle crying tears on my dried skin,
stars whispering in my ears to pack in
when I can’t seem to cut myself deep enough
to bleed words that knit themselves into the screen,
and build a mirror for others to look into,
point their finger and say “shit, that’s so you”.
Am I really a poet if emotion is a language of the soul
and I need him to teach me how to speak it;
If I have tried to belong my whole life