The Language of the Angles and I

Peaches and pens and all those words pushing into my conscious mind, Some days it’s best to leave all the excess fluff on the apathetic page, And whether anyone stumbles across them really won’t matter, just as long as they’re there and they know they are; What a terrible fortune to be taught in English— That language in the sap of mockery we all admire secretly, I hadn’t defined myself “poet” until the moment I saw myself that way; Picking words for academic purposes makes for sighs and eyes rolled, But I wanted to write, and essays became breezy and comfortable, I grasped and jarred-up every English lecture, Until a language-nerd-word-weaver is what I defined myself as; Now Poetry —her stately expectations hovering over me, Gives me standards, but never limitations, And I write on as a self-discovered poet— Not restrained or squeezed into a mold; I am entirely English-obsessed, And I suppose when not in prose, my words make me a poet