Am I a poet?
I wear dark, pin-stripped pants to work in my flourescent-lit office.
I prepare PowerPoint presentations to present at scholarly conferences and not literary competitions.
I'm surrounded by professors and research analyst and not novelist nor thespians.
My writing doesn't rhyme, I've never written a haiku and it's not even short,so I definitely can't be a poet.
Although my left nostril is pierced, I don't adorn any tattoos (I'm not one of those 'free spirited' poets, I'm wayyy too picky and I get tired of looking at the same thing all day). My hair is curly but it's not as 'strong' as that of poets who lock their passion in every strand of hair and refer to those words when they get a very unusual case of writer's block, which I swear I'm cursed with so I am no poet.
But am I really a poet?
I write for me, from my heart to the heart of my journal. I believe that beauty can be found in any and everything and one on this realm.
Instead of my yoga mat being a plain ole' orange one, it becomes my deserted island, my safe haven where I only reside, I make and 'bend' the rules.
My walk to my 'poet-less' job in the morning becomes my daily mantra, giving thanks for all that was, is and will be in my life. I give thanks for what I had, who I am, and what shall be. Every step is transformed into a song and dance of gratitude to the most high ( I love rainy days in particular: the tapping on my umbrella transforms my melody into a staccato). They say when you sing you pray twice =).
The scent of coco butter reminds me of summer, that of Maja brand foundation reminds me of my mother and the smell of an industrial dryer whisk me to a crisp fall morning.
So am I a poet?
A poet I am
I'm just a poet
or I just am
