Unforeseen poet

I always called myself a writer. Never once did I consider myself a poet. Browning, Poe, Byron and Henley: these are poets. I have but merely put down a few words in verse, free or formed, every now and then.

But the now and thens have added up, and my poetry has surpassed my prose. Who would have thought?

I’m a poet?

The body shakes
As the hand steadies
And the mind becomes clear
The words she writes
With heart
With spirit
With vulnerability
Her own
She fears them;
They tell
Her truth.

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