The other night I recited a poem for my mother and father in the car. Note: they never listen to my poems and they swear I complain about everything. But this time was different. My parents listened to my poem and when I was done my mother asked me “How do you do that?” I replied “Do What?!” and she said “How do you do that? How do you write poems? How do you ‘Poet’ ? “
I didn’t know how to answer.
I bleed more than others on a regular basis. Mother, I don’t just see colors but I feel them. I wear my heart on my sleeve as a normal accessory. Mother, I have no idea how to be a poet, I was born this way. I wrote words on paper and they spoke to me. I look at leaves on trees romantically, Mother, I don’t know how to ‘Poet’ , I just am. I have creative thoughts that swirl inside of me, I feel naked on stage yet fully clothed in paper weight thoughts, Mother…when you asked me how to be a poet, you essentially asked me how to be a stripper, Mother, I bare my soul on stage for an audience unknown and I swear that that is the closest to home I will ever be. I cannot teach one to strip for it is something unconscious inside of me that decides it to be, Mother, I have no idea how to be a poet.
