A Poet Isnt a Person

A poet is never happy A poet is never stoic A place where it doesn’t belong Is a place a poet calls home. Forty Quinn was right, If a person doesn’t have trauma, It’s not a person at all. What does a rich poet matter if not for the poor in spirit? My definition, I dare implore Building this home into a picture perfect portfolio The foundation of its home MY HOME Crooked teeth and moldy feathers A string of pearls and broken emeralds Nobody ever thinks of a poet and its setbacks All it is might be a creature A protostar in a nebula of nothingness Wasted potential to be something, anything other than what it will be A nothing A nobody A child of Leonardo, dying in the arms of the galaxy it tried so desperately to grasp onto A nebula is only found by the astronaut, The Armstrong of the ordinary, Of which has no knowledge of being. The space race isn’t something the astronauts anticipate The turning pages of time and surrendering to its wrath Is much more worthwhile than choosing pink or purple For a creature that spends its life amongst a sea of colorblind astronomers. A poet isn’t a person Without relativity, without a microplastic ribbon A pin of sophistication on the untamed bastard. A poet isn’t a person It’s something to endure We’re not people Anymore