The poet has eyes.
Eyes which have seen the darkness that lies in all of us,
and the lies that all of us have hid in the darkness.
The poet's eyes are scarred.
This is what makes a poet.
The poet has hands.
Hands which are wrinkled, with deep grooves and signs of pain and age.
These hands have changed the world around them, shaping it positively and negatively.
These hands are rivers, allowing words and sentences to flow into the ivory sea of paper.
These hands have labored.
This is what makes a poet.
The poet has ears.
Ears which have the poet wishes was sealed with stone, for much hurt and criticism has come through these ***** of skin.
The blunt message of an online bully.
The argument where someone who was dear to the poet left in anger.
The straight-up insults that hurt so much not because of the malice in them, but the truth in them.
However, the poet has kept his ears open, because much joyous sounds have wafted through these.
A baby's first cry.
A mother's words of support.
A lover's romantic invitations.
The poet has heard all of these.
This is what makes a poet.
The poet has a brain.
The brain which births ideas in the deepest troughs of its convulsions.
These ideas are made of pure, volatile energy.
They are dancing flames, igniting feelings and illuminating a poem so that it shines like a beacon in the blackness of oblivion.
The brain provides the poet to breath his own poetry, and live on it and feel like it's the only drug the poet needs to save his life.
This brain keeps the poet insane, content, and alive.
This is what makes a poet.
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