we were made to be poets
to sanctify our tongues as a church of words
to reach into our throats and let the sounds pour out
to glorify everything we see in a flurry of description
sprinkle our fairy dust so the world doesn’t forget 
the magic everything holds inside

we feel the urge to name our surroundings
the thrill Adam and Eve felt as the syllables flew
out of their mouths at each stroke of inspiration
dewdrop. peacock. pebble. tongue
the only muscle not connected to bone at both ends
always reaching out for something to wrap around
something to swallow
something to call our own

how can we not try, at least, to make sense of the world? 
try, at least, to match this feeling with a word. 
love? loneliness. try to seem like we’re in control
make sure no one knows the desperation with which 
we hold on—find a metaphor, find a sound
something to remember this moment by when it’s gone
write it down on paper and protect it
the more you write the longer it will take to slip away

we find solace in the promise of poetry.
music is a poem, and so is this sky. 
a story mostly blacked out is a poem
a paragraph missing vowels is a poem
a memory mostly blacked out is a poem
a person missing love is a poem

we were made to be poems
we were not meant to last forever, only
long enough for the people who watched us break,
line break, time and time again to write us down on a 
piece of paper and protect us, folded 
in between dog-eared pages and wallets
repeating our verses under their breath until
we slip away, gone except for a phrase,
a word, hovering off the tips of their tongues, 
added as an afterthought to the ends of their own poems.

Performance

Process

I wrote this poem reflecting on what it means to be a poet, and what defines a poem. I thought that in the eyes of poets, everything around us is a poem in some form, including ourselves. This poem reflects on the importance of writing and language to poets, and how that is passed on to others.