Only my poems prove that I’m here.
My poems that confess my rage, my suffering,
my joys, my loves, my humor, my anxiety, my sadness,
my stubbornness, my kindness, my hatred, my fears…
Other than my poems, I’m not really here,
but go through the motions nonetheless—
often smiling, nodding, and agreeing with others
just to make them happy.
Only my poems prove that I’m here,
because in most other respects I’m not,
but will say that I’m definitely here at the moment,
which I’m clearly stating for the record…
