Gabrielle Gassin

I am not a poet

And yet

Words come from thoughts

Letters on a yellow page

colours changing – black, blue, green

Inside, jumbled ideas

Become clear

Reflective, evocative,

Making sense

And yet

The words of others

Sound louder

But make no sense to me

And have I

Misunderstood

What makes a poet?

Words misaligned –

Bewildering collections

Yet, observers

Whose commentary conveys awe

But is it awe

Or just confusion?

Words not allowed to be simple enough

So that

They make perfect sense

Is it a requirement

To be mystified

Who decides what

Goes in

To make a poet

A poet