poetry 201

Is a poet made or born?

Born with the stars in their eyes but no words in their mouth, ’til the evolution of
sentence structures go south,

and all you have are
broken lines.

Conquest to capture
hearts and minds by breaking
apart the
sounds of sentiment.

Sixth sense of phrase and the ways that they turn,
inside out then back so we can attempt the inverse.

Voracious syllables and how
their bones hurt when
I break them, marginalisation
of muscle memory,

for I favour the
telepathy of brain dead verbs emitting waves,
how they wash into bays that have all dried up,
vegetative states receding.

Archaic purpose releasing,
our grammar cheated death and now has come to
claim its laurels.

Is a poet made or born,
built from ground up
or fashioned
from portals to
an alternate dimension;
would it be so
horrible to assume other-worldliness
when the kiss of this one gives my
lips hypertension?


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