I, The Poet

I, the poet, can turn graphite
Into murals of history.
I, the poet, don't survive, but thrive.
And I, the poet, don't hide my word,
For my thoughts condense, and condense into
Ballets, by a quill, overt with the
Music of blue inkishness.
I, the poet, with the flows of my hand, reckon
To sweep the sand off the writing paper
And besmear it with golden dust.
Dust of my hidden past and gold of my art,
Gold of experience and dust of rampart.
I, the poet, can invent words,
Like I just invented inkishness.
I, the poet, have liberty,
To conjure spellings out of thin air,
Air that is thinner than the bottleneck
Of our filters of social acceptance.
I, the poet, can cleave expressions
To make my rhyme.
I, the poet, can single-handedly
Challenge time.
I, the poet, am powerful,
And I, the poet, have no doubt that
The pen is mightier than the
Guns
And shells and hand-grenades,
And nuclears,
And for the sake of memory, swords.
I, the poet,
Sanely swim,
In my insanity.