I wonder if I am a poet because I wanted to be
or simply because I can. Is it something chosen
or something that has been thrust upon me?
Is it because I wonder things like how I became a poet
or because there was nothing else for me to be.

I wonder if it’s because I have a thing for words,
strange fascinations with letters and sounds.
Maybe it’s because I like words that sound delicate,
words like “suspended” and “grace”.
Maybe I write because when I try to speak out loud,
my words hang suspended gracelessly in the air.

Maybe I write because I have no other way to express,
no other way to announce, no other way to be.
Maybe it’s because phrases like “caffeinated twilight”
appear in my head, and sound silly in any other context.
If I do not write poetry, “undulating whispers”
and “unbidden regrets” just sound sappy.

Perhaps I am not a poet because of any of these reasons.
Maybe I write poetry for the reason poetry exists – it just is.