I never belonged anywhere,

Other than the pages of a book,

Living inside other people’s word,

Until I started to write.

 

I found my home in similes,

And created paintings of my devising,

Out of words like “euphoric”,

And “nostalgia”.

 

I made metaphors out of air,

And concrete poems out of pictures.

 

I found an alphabetic world,

That was longing for poetry,

That it might never understand,

And so,

I gave it poetry.

 

Ambiguity,

Anachronism,

Hubris,

And inculate.

 

I lived in hyperboles,

And sang homonyms.

 

To sum it up:

I did not only give the world poetry,

I gave the world the true me,

And that by itself,

Was pure poetry.