RE: New Poets

When you say you want to be a poet / You want words to spill from your lips / Sweet songs of mourning birds / You want to breathe beauty into the unspeakable / Like art, you want to be seen, heard, remembered / Did they tell you there’s poetry in soft-spoken secrets, fingers intertwined, a page folded into itself? / But hesitation demands a silent tongue / That poet you speak of / They live in your throat / Waiting to consume you