Though I hear you're a poet, you look like just another average Joe to me,
he said. I looked at him before answering. Pardon me sir, but what does
a poet look like? Does he have to wear his sorrow like a cape,
whirling in the harsh wind biting his cheeks until it
intervenes with his smile, leaving every attempt
resembling a colorless rainbow reflecting his
shadow walking aimlessly through the
endless night?
Does he
have to let his eyes
spell out his excitement for broken
pedals landing next to his spread fingertips
ignited by the touch of nature, his hands painting
portraits in the sky of every winter morning graced by frozen
tears spread by crisp winds into the hands of a universe celebrating
the beauty of raindrops and bums and kings and snakes feeding off its wealth?
Please understand sir, I don't deny that I'm a Joe. I'm average, normal, a fully
functioning human being, except for the fact that my dreams are disturbed
by visions of my grandfather's bones breaking at the sound of a breath,
that my fingers not only itch with lust whenever a woman walks
by but vibrate with an urgent need to write and scream how
wonderful her cheekbones look in the dawning night,
that I cry alongside the earth whenever a
tree is put down, and that I can see
jewels splattered across
the dirty sidewalk
everyone just
runs past.
You see sir,
I'm not saying
we're different you
and I. Only that I'm a
POET
and you're not ALIVE.