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 ***** 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.