It’s confusing. Stretched from professional. Confessional poet. So much so, I look up the definition:
“a person who writes poems”….
“a person possessing special powers of imagination or expression.” Yeah.
Put a P on my chest. Yet, best I believe, merely diary. Writing as ashamed. Merely, just. A stranger saying his life story waiting for a bus, eating chocolates out of the box. A feather at the end is poetic. And so is love.
And I wonder what verse will express as I’m standing on my summit in two weeks. Merely, just breathing. Feeling, not imagining, but receiving. Nor for the first time. Revised, multiplied in meaning as someone who climbs to find poetry


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