You ain't a poet
Just a drunk with a pen
I was told that once
Something incontestable there
Shall we say, nail on the head
Truer than the insult it was intended as
I am never sober while I write
Even when I haven't been drinking
In fact there may be nothing so totally wild as sobriety for a poet
Or a drunk
I never claimed to be a poet
I was simply a writer
Writing
I inadvertently and with some fervour started crafting
Lines that, with some polishing, resembled poems
More or less
Poetry was an accident
Poetry is always a kind of accident
Just like everything that is truly beautiful
The next whisky in my glass, liquid elegance
The next stanza I quarrelled with, chasing ghosts
The next day I stumbled into, lonely desolation
All of these
Always felt somewhat
Shall we say
Accidental
Yet my solitude, my addictions, my self-loathing were all
Very much on purpose
And tonight I am reminded
Holding my children, and my wife
In my home
Warm and loved and sober
This wasn't how I thought my story would unfold
How did this all go so horribly right
A beautiful accident