New realities hover at the edge of my consciousness,

even saying that sounds terribly trite,

or worse horribly pompous.

But a poet must wander these fringes,

and sometimes when needed, hide behind something completely anonymous.

 

I try to speak in ways that resonate,

a little like truth, a little like fate, synonymous with subjects others dare not say aloud.

 

I write to still the noise inside my head,

one poem, two poems; sometimes three,

all running at once, quite simultaneous.

If I wrote in any other way,

my words would escape,

becoming strangers to me, and I would sound completely autonomous.

 

And if these lines are neither neat nor notorious,

I will still chase them, catch them, half-formed but staying completely glorious.

For the edge of thought is never still.

it is the place I write because I must,

not because I will,

As a poet I am you could say eponymous.