make me poet

words pulled from the womb
of my thoughts… have i given
birth to poetry? a poem even,
lacking in such words, how the
book drops against the floor,
sparing the table, sparing
my thoughts from any further
mental injury… shall i read
you a story or sing you to sleep
or abandon you on the table
altogether and give you no milk
or that mush in a bowl you like
so much because you have worried
and disappointed me… our words,
our poems… how can you still
remain so immature when we have
grown the lengths of stanzas
together, from haiku to aimless
soliloquy, our poetry have
stammered, repeated itself
incessantly over and over like
reminders now i cannot remember,
or do i want to… stammer even
further even if all i got is
mediocre? filthy lucre i am not,
but words i know can enrich me,
make me poet if i want to be