The world is full of poets,

No more special than the first or the last,

No more or less passionate or feeling or tortured.

But

In a dizzingly fast world with conversations so careless that the words

escape our mouths like a bullet escapes a gun,

so quickly in fact that the hand can not remember pulling the trigger-

I take the time to carefully craft my lyrics

Painstakingly cautious of the diction-of the flow-of the acceleration of my heart

The pang in my chest when I find the sentences and the sounds that feel the way I do

When I abandon social etiquette and speak an honest truth regardless of who it hurts.

My words stitch together to form a comforter to cover the brusies and cuts 

caused by the pressures of walking blindly- 

through a generation whose eyes are always on you

The poems fall out of me effortlessly though I feel alone in my endeavor 

Until

I find the Silversteins who young me down instead of grow me up

I find the Angelous who show me progress in suffering instead of pain

I find the Emersons who show me beauty that is not materialistic and love that is unconditional 

When my soul is set free for just long enough to write

and it finds the other poets of my generation 

and I'm not alone 

That's why I am a poet.