Echos of the past
Linger in my ear
Whispering their written words.
I remember the first time Dickinson's words framed before me,
"I am nobody. Who are you?"
Who am I?
I didn't know then.

Blank paper,
White, pale like synthetic paint,
Unnatural.
But after my pen has finished,
Curved letters have taken over,
Dark and Bold and right.

Things that can't be spoken,
They know no words aloud,
Formulate prettily on paper.
Spilling, Spilling, Spilling
From the heart's hidden chest.

Life can drown you in murky water,
Thick, so its hard to breach a surface.
Poetry is my oxygen mask, and flippers.
The surface is never too far off.

Defying the world's expectations,
Poetry is the confidence that reaches out and
answers that simple question.

"Who are you?"
Who am I?

I am a Poet.