I am neither poet
Nor writer
Nor artist
And I will protest
With broken breath
Until the day I die
Because the words on the pages
Of the masters - all ink and tea
They were the ones who taught me
I am not alone
That I am all skin and organs
Holding in a thousand-million stories
But, I am not a poet
I am not sublime or dark
Or different
I park my car like everyone
I pick at scabs
and I sleep in late
I am not a poet
And, really, that's okay.