I am a POET.

I am a POET.

I declared on my twitter bio, fingers shaking yet spirit fighting as I publicly waged war against the imposter syndrome that has flavoured by artistic journey.

Relentlessly convincing me that I was not “there” yet and it would be deceptive to identify as a poet.

How dare I- identify with a title that has been bestowed on remarkable literary experts.

How could I- ever measure up to the creative excellence of those whose words had the power to build, tear down, mould and break in the very same breath.

 

But …

 

What is a poet?

If not a willing channel that is not afraid to tailor commonly used words to tell tales in peculiar ways

What is a poet?

If not an enabler of the rebirth of stories that could otherwise remain dead and forgotten

What is a poet?

If not one that constantly doubts their craft, but even in their seemingly inadequate art still manages to touch a heart or two

What is a poet?

If not one that condenses the complexities of life and living into simplistic words creating a portal of healing and breathing

What is a poet?

I am a POET.

 

 

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