I am not a painter.
I dabble not in the art of oils;
watercolors cause me a fright.

I am not a singer.
I cannot hold a note;
I sound like a tomcat in the night.

I am not a sculptor.
I cannot bend the clay to my will;
All I produce is a mess.

I am not a musician.
I cannot properly wield an instrument;
I must confess.


What I am is a poet,
a conveyor of words.
A master of metaphor;
of the divine, the absurd.
Critics may not like
my cadence and flow.
My plot, my hero;
the chant and the show.
But words are what heal me,
when my soul is yearning.
Words like a blood-letting,
savage and churning.
And if left with a choice,
between staying silent and living,
without doubt it would be my life I was giving.
In trade for an existence
with naught but repose,
I would choose the perfume of death's darkest rose.

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