Why a Poet

There is hurt

In measures I’m yet to fathom.

There are pieces,

Broken,

Which I haven’t yet begun to gather.

There are tears,

Gaping,

Waiting to be stitched and mended.

There are wounds,

Oozing,

Bloodying numerous gauzes.

Despair, you say?

Run and hide?

I’m broken, you say?

What’s there to survive?

But, wait,

I think,

There’s a poet in me yet.