I once wrote myself a poet.
I once claimed musing my medium
and creation complementary.
I failed in contemplation
and mistook my muse for a replenishing source of inspiration.
My fictitious claims clogged my metacarpels
with mismatched scraps of metaphysics
and mistakes written out and expounded without fault,
yet still incorrect in regards to truth.

I once wrote myself a poet.
Claiming creation was my destruction,
I failed to reminisce with blank pages
and remember our origin,
the original flawed poem posed in prose.
Words met the page before they came to mind,
ink like water,
my vessel was cracked
and I was spilt
before I recognized the filled binders stained,
before I recognized the broken seal leaking.

Emptying my head faster than I could move the pen,
I wrote myself a poet,
the lines were cramped with
messages left between,
I CLAIMED myself a poet,
and all creations were an extension of me.
My destruction was complete.
Flowing like fact,
I was held up by the people
I couldn't help to think of
with the break of every turning page.
Inspiration but desperation to
refill a tank of exhaustion
and minor miscalculation
when hesitation
became the transportation
for that dropping ink.

I once wrote myself a poet.
I once claimed myself a god,
destroying me to find a being
born from the pen
and suckling from a disembodied self
found at the fork of was
and have been,
some body got lost in translation,
the rest
was misplaced during the transition from wrote
to was, and back
to the road I traveled.

I wrote myself a poet,
became one
only to lose myself
to the title.
I rode my self,
a poet to an altar,
though during my final sacrifice
I faltered.

I wrote myself a poet.
I claimed myself creator.
I lost myself to show it,
skirting the opportunity
to prove myself orator,
and now I'm back to
reading between those lines
in hopes of finding
my self.
A poet.