Becoming Poetry
How did you decide when your writing became poetry; when did you dare call yourself a poet, in light of those that came before. Was there a time, a moment, when the lightning hit the core; the eyes once dark and void saw the world without the veil: false and fake, like trees blooming in cold winter’s night. Was there another, like you a dreamer, wanting so see a world alight with the powers of the sublime, the fantastical, and the intense interior of the soul, exposed and fragile. How did you decide to continue, when the bleak dawn of day approached, and your words failed to manifest; when the storm brought only withered leaves; and all the little things once loved slowly faded beyond the realms of perception. How did you become poetry, when all else failed.