I look at the mirror, broken and mended

time and time and time again;

and my hands, scarred and bloodied—

taken not so well to broken glass—

oozing their crimson laments.

My laughter, bitter—

not because I am disturbed,

but because it is all I know, all I knew.

Cogito ergo sum—I am, I am AM;

but I can tend and pick the flora, 

I can love and make love—

no hatred but counterfeit.

So I ready my fists, yet again.

Is this what it means to be a poet?