Who decides whether you’re a poet or not?
Who has that kind of power,
Over word,
Over meaning,
Over the human spirit?
Why should you suppress or hide the very voice
That defines and proclaims you,
That gives, You, life; with a path to the eternal.

Who cares if you Harvest playful aphorisms
Or bloodthirsty epics,
If the same you navigate
The “en corsage” classic riddle
Or an out-of-whack avant-garde proposition.
Why not scream it out loud to the four winds:
That today, you are a poet.Why not say it?
“Today you are, I am, we are, poets.”
Careful, or not, as you well know,
Tomorrow someone will arrive to measure with rigor
Your tangled-up complaint,
To deconstruct the bridge
—That we have crossed together—with a newly born doubt
And your poem will rest in some filthy street drain
Refused and ignored by the godly followers
Of the powerful.
And Me? I’ll just stay in front of the mirror,
Dreaming-up the next metaphor (or something else like that);
I’m just saying.
Raúl Castillo Soto

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