They ask me if I'm still doing the poetry thing use words like "talent" words like "gift" someone gave me this gift maybe it was God - it was God given by the father, or my father is was father given thank him for these creative genes thank someone not me this, these words, this stage, it's all lucky all chance and gratitude they want me to nod and agree I won't nod or agree I won't pretend that writing is something that always flows naturally like a smooth bowel movement as if sometimes I sit down to take a sh** and a poem comes out as if I've never sat down to write a poem and had absolute sh** come out There are good and bad days there are hundreds of drafts before this ‘good enough' hits the stage there is missed sleep and skipped meals hours that feel like minutes and minutes that feel like years there are mountains of what I once thought were grand ideas broken down into unusable rubble there are doubts, there are fumbles, there is lost confidence that takes time to recover there is difficulty in writing poetry though it can be done from a desk or a subway seat with feet well rested, with hands so clean it is not be any means easy. And if you think that I got here on talent or gifts then here, I'll hand you everything that isn't packaged with it, here are my unclocked hours here are my tired wrists here are my tears and you know what, I don't have time to go through the list if you could just come back later, pick it all up tonight, I'm sorry, I'm just pretty busy... I've got a poem to write.