Am I a poet by what I write –
Ashes of my thoughts?
Or does it come by what I right?
Are my words good because they’re true
(And none can refute).
Or do I have to force them through?
Can these words cut soul binding cords,
Set free the captive,
And make from watery milk, thick curds?
Could my lame verses tell a tale
To cure inertia
And make men pull the cobra’s tail?
Can mere lines grow sharp claws to tear
With holy rage and
Still be the hand that wipes a tear?
Should I just write to earn your cheers,
Like the circus clown,
Or make you tremble in your chairs?