raised_a_poet pushpins mom, you raised a poet and she wasn't fit for the job. poets have precise words that sum up sentences in a singular insanity. poets have slender fingers and slender wrists and dainty fragile frames that potent emotion echo within. I am not that neat poet whose words are solitary and satisfying. I do not have that wisp of a body whose presence is forgotten (because physical elements are so easily lost). My words spill out messily in a heap and jumble of broken sentences. my body is thick with confusion and stained black cloth. my face is animated and my features contour what my insides want to speak. my mom raised a poet with an awkward disposition and an out of place beat. 020325 ... misstree mom, you raised a poet my words spill out thick and bountiful like water drenching the garden, growing beautiful, lush flowers. the dirt of the world is under my nails, and you taught me how to smile when i found worms. you taught me to be thick and strong and resilient like the trees you taught me to climb, and you taught me that wispy girls don't bounce when they fall-they break. you taught me how to be real, how a german build survives the bitter cold, how to see what is real and spin it even more beautiful. mom, you raised a poet, watered me, nurtured me, toughened me and encouraged me, and i could never thank you enough. 020325 ... . . 030121 ... . . 050123 what's it to you? who go blather from