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.