I am,
just a surragate
the Universe chooses, at random,
to impregnate with
the ideas of time eternal.
This stick of lead, the narrow
birth canal through which these
words must pass
as I, with trembling palms
and sweated brow, force my hands
to shape the words as quickly as I pass them.
But my hands are clumsy things.
This paper is the birthing towel
on which these words breath first life.
And when I step to the mic to
speak these words,
release these words like one million birds
set free from cage
one butterfly break of cocoon,
each one set forth with their own intent
to heal or harm
to love or ****,
I pray these words remember the time
I spent coddling and caressing
chastising and correcting,
shaping them into the
clicks and tones and dips and moans
you will recognize as poetry.
Simple words clothed in similes and metaphores.
But my words
are week.
They hold no power outside of intent
can't hold you captive without your consent.
For when I speak these words
into existence,
I send them off as dandelion seeds into the
wind to land where they may.
For I am merely
a surrogate the Universe chooses, at random,
to impregnate with the ideas of time eternal.
I am merely a poet.
Nothing more
and probably much less.