Sunday, September 9, 2012

The poet

Don’t call it loneliness
name it poem;
those dense dark moments
spiralling out of her pen,
words intense like sin ...
Don’t call her weird
call her a poet;
she who has etched
a blue butterfly on her arm
she who writes
in the middle of the night
dipping her pen
into that pulpy sorrow
which she collects gently
from her belly.