I was always afraid to call myself a poet
Whirling around in little dark rooms
scribbling
Meaningless ink blots
Like a confused typhoon
Scared not to be led by my sisters’ driftings
Towards poetry and song-writing and all the
wonders of
Human creation, and all the while
Scared to be led
We’re always writing and running
And running and writing
And we don’t have time to think and
It’s too much;
The storm was always a shameful habit that
we had to hide
But what if, for just a second in the eye I let
myself
Succumb to the tide
And whirl around in little dark rooms like a
raging wind
To make a mess, to write and cry and to
finally
Call myself a poet