Du Narcisse Exaucé

What makes a poet, anyways?
The drunken metaphors
That catch us off guard
In the sobriety of the day?

Or the sudden insights
Taking our sanity
In the pulsing night air
Cool against my sweating skin?

Is it secrets we cannot seem to keep
The dramatic lines
Formed from simple trifles
Minds twisting
At every turn?

Or maybe it’s just an ego
Self-proclaimed “poet”
Nothing more than locks of hair
Around a swollen head
Kinks and curls
With words and lines
Ink writhers
At my fingertips
A fiery tongue.

Tell me
Am I a poet?
Or a narcissistic teenager
Full of angst and impulses
With a few words
Tucked into the hem of her skirt?


7 thoughts on “Du Narcisse Exaucé

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