“Writer. Poet.” The vulgarity of labels is depressing.
It’s depressing to hear myself cringe at the sound of these words.
I have to say it properly; otherwise, I run the risk of sounding too important.
Writer. Poet. Reluctance didn’t abandon me.
It’s as loyal as a passionate-obsessive lover.
It makes me drip in agony; but leaves me un-empty.
At least, I knew what I wanted. The title, writer,
bears with it a mission. The term, poet, suggests my welcomed lunacy. And even
at times when I feel that I’m better being
someone else, this truth — these labels — remind
me. Now, it’s just hard to forget.