Poet.

When these creased and folded up streets sleep,
I sit in the middle of this Thursday night,
where nothing real seems to happen,
and wait for that one giddy hour
when a poem will fall out of the sky
and unfurl this small world
shrinking into itself, sinking
into the tiny realities we carry in our heads.

Worlds slide with every shift in perspective,
the earth reshapes itself along new outlines
as another rib cage of beliefs collapses.
It was built out of nothing but butterfly wings
and cities of sand and faith.
Worlds balanced not by what we chose to build,
but by what we chose to be blind to.
Make-believe is fun for only so long,
until we are betrayed by it.

And we forget, how much of our lives is spent playing games of pretend.

They say I am a poet.

Poets wish themselves into existence through their words.

Realities do not collide into each other
in one moment of understanding.
That is a lie.
They can only echo of each other.
We can only stitch ourselves into a language
and hope that one sound will strike a reflection in a different experience
and resonate with understanding
so that we may hear our own voices
back through the voices of others
and we will know that we exist.

There can be no other reason for scratching
against a gum chewing existence,
hobbling on borrowed crutches
of stars and breath and worlds and sand
trying to say things without saying it.
Using pictures stolen from books and pop songs
smuggled into a blank page by ineptitude
from a language (and a culture by extension)
I have adopted but can never own.

There is no validation, only self recognition,
and trust.

The hardest part is
permitting oneself the freedom
to dream of changing worlds.

This is just something that I am.

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