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When to realise you’re a poet
You realise you’re a poet:
When you wear the same underpants 5 days straight;
When you no longer bleat like a sheep;
When you are called ‘crazy’ for being different;
When you are called ‘crazy’ on such a frequent basis, that you become quite proud—
And accept it as a fact;
When you realise that you have no taste nor affordability for designer clothes
Nor a fashion sense that would rival any recluse;
When you become that recluse;
When you grow increasingly strange to such an extent that the gender you are
most attracted to finds you repulsive as all hell;
When you find the notion, to lead an ordinary life—work an ordinary job—
and slowly decay like the rest of them, an unbearable task;
When your masturbatory habits become increasingly diverse & exotic;
When you keep getting asked ‘ what planet are you on today?’ or ‘look at
him, he’s in a different world!’;
When you feel a strong sense of gagging the moment you step into a
hospital-pristine shopping mall, full of young flush-faced families, who all
appear happy in an environment that you consider laughable;
When you speak, and the words that you speak are uncommon & arranged in such
a way that people nearby, who you don’t know, actually stop what they are
doing and listen;
You realise that you’re a poet:
When you hear a deafening fire alarm & see people rushing away from a
building & you want to just remain in there for the pure tranquillity.
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