How does one believe themselves
The poet.

Does one just speak the words?
And if so becomes it.
Becomes words.
And thick ink

As if a spell was cast.
This seems a strange alchemy 
So I doubt it.

I will not speak the words.
Instead I scribble them in a notebook
That I keep in the drawer by the bed.
With an assortment of other papers
And some knitting needles.
Do you think it might work anyway?

I do not know.
This is the best I can do.

A secret between me and my notebook.