Here I am a poet.
Here disparate parts are whole.
Here there is a building up.
A slow accrual.
An inevitability.
Here I tear it down.
Because the paradox is pardoned.
Embraced.
Cherished.
Furthered.
Here hell hath fury.
Heaven a little hope.
Here is inside out.
Here it’s strange feeling amongst the words.
Here has a life of its own.
Here there is work being done.
Betterment.
Crafting.
Here things happen slowly.
Carefully.
One word.
One line.
One poem at a time.
Here there are victories.
Over fear.
Embarrassment.
Ridicule.
Here inevitability takes its spooky form.
Here it seems there is never enough good time.
Time well rested.
Free from pressure.
From hassle.
From bills.
From my restless mind.
Here sometimes there is a calming.
Space and quiet.
Clarity of thought and expression.
Here sometimes the sharp lines are smudged.
Here I peck the ground.
Here I fight the deep dark muddle.
Here I scratch myself until I bleed.
Like I said
Here I am a poet.