If I were a sentence,
I would speak to one person surely
And I would sing.
If I were a story,
I would talk of throbbing black
and burning grey and say
that, out of all the house,
some corners are… sweetest.
And if I were a writer,
I would write pages and pages
and never title a thing.
I would revise so much
one day I'd rewrite myself;
an ocean, maybe- clean, steady.
But if I could only ever be a poet,
I would simply lift my hand
And shatter the world.