Poetry by Fitz

I don’t pretend to be a poet who heals wounds with his words
Nor a craftsman who can mend the world with his tools.
I have none of that.
No words and no tools
No brushes or quills that abide by the rules
And yet I am
a poet, and
a craftsman
But not how you think.

I lie through my pearls
Day in and day out
I use my punishment to build an image of me that I tolerate
One that he may even notice and turn his head towards
If just for a moment
To make the shattering worth it.

So I am, therefore, a poet and a craftsman
But not how you think.
I skate on lakes with my tongue and let the rink slice me open
And I build a fort out of my sacrifice that is a lexicon of who I try to be
Of who I might be
If,
For once,
I could notice who I was.