All of those identities that end in "t" and "r" and "n,"
make us feel god awful and self-conscious.
Singer, artist, writer, musician, mortician, poet.
Who entitles us to use them?
And it's true, your voice touches in between my shoulders,
and melts to the bottom of my stomach when you croon,
but you don't find yourself an apt enough player of the voice box.
And sure, painting the reasons why I woke from your dream,
might seem like I'm an artist, but I rather just say...
I enjoy painting.
And right, we like to etch words into books and alchemize
the desire to question into stories,
but we're just fans of reading.
And you know, when the air cradles the harmonies of your guitar
like newborn unicorns, I want to point and claim,
though you think you know too little to call yourself musician.
And yes, the way we lay our bodies to sleep every night sometimes hopeful we don't rise again,
is much like how we treat our desire to declare ourselves,
but that makes us only those who give the dead away.
And of course, my blood courses in order to stitch and weave worded thoughts like these together,
because they lighten our concerns and brighten our better qualities,
so of course,
yes,
I know,
Right,
Sure,
It's true,
I am a...
I might dabble in poetry, here and there. No big deal.