i am not a poet.
i do not take thoughts,
spin them on the page,
and give them breath
the way a little man
spins gold from straw.

i am not a dreamer.
i do not ponder the stars,
wonder if they cry
or smile or laugh
or if the sheep dreams
of androids and muzzles.

i am not romantic,
with ideals of flowers—
carnations, forget-me-nots,
daisies—or letters of blood
with the alphabet
blazing a hole in the heart.

i am a person;
just that.
just that.