“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.


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