To Be A Poet

‎”He consorted with prostitutes and poets…and with persons even worse.”
Jorge Luis Borges

One cannot claim,
As some do,
The title poet,
If they have inhibition,
For poet is not a title,
It is a way of living,
Words falling from the brainstem,
Somewhere deep in the subconscious
Realized in this temporal plain,
Though there is nothing plain about them,
Or the Warrior Poet.

One cannot claim,
Poet, as label,
For it is a lifestyle, a brand,
To be a poet means to accept life,
The ups and the downs,
The challenges, obstacles and opportunities,
Feeding off them,
Feeding off worldliness,
As the marrow of life,
The marrow of creation,
To be a poet means to live fully and freely,
To accept the dreary pain that pushes one to the brink,
As readily as the joy imparted by a smile,
To be a poet,
Is to connect with the abstract and the surreal,
As readily and easily as with the tangible and real,
To be a poet is to be the friend of all,
To reach within another living soul,
To determine, artistically, stylistically,
Through words and prose,
The best that every person has to offer,
Or the worst.

To be a poet,
Requires a joie de vivre,
A keen eye,
And a dictionary as palette,
Where the thesaurus is a different brush,
To be a poet,
Is not to claim as such,
For a poet, is one,
Who is friend of all,
As required,
For the words,
Continuing to flow,
Friend of prostitutes,
Goodie two shoes,
Little Miss not so innocent,
An endless stream of subjects,
For consideration and immortalization in words.

To be a poet,
Is to love,
Is to fall in love,
Over and over and over again,
Getting the heart broken,
Only so that it may once again soar,
It is to be in lust,
To fancy infatuation,
Is to crave a kiss,
Perhaps a slap,
And everything in between,
Oh yes, to be a poet.

To be a poet,
A grand poet,
Is to be a lover and liver,
Of life,
As this Warrior Poet does.



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