There was a time when words
would gallop through my head like
herds of horses, leaving me gasping
and trampled in the muck

of my emotions. Their hoof prints, scars,
on my mind, on my heart,
marking me as “writer,” though I felt
I did not deserve such a title.
How could I, when horses break free

of their own volition? As weeks
passed, I
began to
learn the ways
of the herds
of my mind,

the strangely
rhythmical
cadence of
their hooves on
the insides

of my skull.
Though I could
never run
with them, I
learned to ride

fast; I learned
to decide
which would run
today; I
learned to guide

their forceful
direction,
while clinging
tightly to
the first horse

I wanted
to work to
a lather.
Sometimes, when
I am weakened, we fight

for control of my pen, my horses
and I, but they
are always
just that- my
horses. Now,

though I am
only starting,
I feel I
can somehow
finally

lay claim to
the title
of “poet.”