They never called me “Poet”.

They called me “Weak”,

they called me “Sanguine”,

called me “Depressive”,

called me “Ineffectual”.


They called me “Liar”,

They called me “Dreamer”,

called me “Traitor”,

called me “Strange”,

but never close enough that I could hear them.


I’m basking in these moments,

because they’re all that I have now.

The words just cascade

out of me

like a waterfall.


This is my mind.

This is my soul.

This is my therapy,

my mid-life crisis,

my born-again moment.

Again and again

baptized by the pen.

I never needed them

to call me “Poet”.


This is my mind that I share,

where I admit I’m scared

and triumphs are rare,

but they’re there.


I’m fending off total despair

with words instead of a gun,

instead of a needle,

instead of a bottle;

I’ve already won

this and so many battles

by fighting before they’ve begun.


I guess this is the time

to tell you all my secrets;

since you’ve hung with me this far.

I guess,

I have to pay you for your eyes,

your mind and your heart.

Honestly, I’d rather steal them,

bilk you of all your emotions

and make the perfect get-away.

I guess I’m all the things that they say

and to be honest;

I’ve never called myself “Poet”.


HG – 2017

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