Spread thin A million balls in the air Impossible follow-through Fragmented frustration Held so close Then slipped away Lost in the stinging haze Of the bright and burning day Oh warm well spirit come again Release me from my Angered anguish Once I dwelled in decadence When this realm was new Completion is now seldom and few Now I wallow in my pool of regret Coiled in shades of my own abandonment I lay fire To my aborted creations Ash thrown to the cleansing wind Deprived from your prying eyes You know it’s better This way For I offer only The most genuine of wordscapes Let it go Try to escape Focus on absent nothingness Forget order And structure All will come In time
Why yes I am. One who writes poetry is indeed a poet. If you were asking if I am a professional poet, the answer is no.
