I never thought myself a poet
Not by format nor by soul

As I never understood
What constitutes a sonnet
Or what’s considered prose

I’ve heard of free verse
Of stanzas and of odes

But never thought myself a poet
Never knowing what makes one so

I’ve appreciated poetry
From a young age to my own
Admiring the ways
A poets words can bare their soul

So even if I don’t know
What makes a poem a poem
Or what makes a poet so

I think I might be a poet
Because I want to share my own

Putting pen to paper
My thoughts begin to flow

From a quarry of memories
I know longer wish to hold

They blossom into flowers
Once trampled by my soul

Now nourished by a feeling
I never thought I’d know

There exists a place within me
Where my memories intertwine

Dancing and embracing
They entrance my wayward mind

Their soft whispers of nostalgia
****** my long lost soul

As they barricade the memories
That fuel my sorrow so

Words are symbols
Used to explain things we don’t really understand

Our comprehension behind these words are undeveloped
Our interpretation of these symbols are not unified

Letters are loose shapes
Holding looser thoughts together

Rationality is an equation

Reality:
Just an agreed upon perception

We’re born half formed
From jumbled DNA
Mailable and morphing
Like unhardened clay

We bend but we break
We stretch until we crack

We’re flexible and pliable
Until we’re rigid in our tract