You possess the words. They don’t possess you.
You possess something inexcusably tangible with every breath inhaled and exhaled.
Your writing didn’t just sneak up on me. No your writing gave me a swift kick in the butt and continues to do just that as I read it and consume it and devour it like carrion and tubers.
The talent does not possess you. You possess the talent.
The talent does not reap the rewards you do.
And if you’re doing it just right the rewards will be forgotten rather quickly because there are more poems to be written and fights against windmills to be waged.
You’re a super nova.
And you are the glory.
And I’m an asshole for questioning you in the first, second and third place.
You possess the power. The power does not possess you.
You possess a knockout punch and do it every time you press down the keys with your wiggly digits, knuckles and thumbs.
Your writing has sparked a revolution in our heads. It’s your poetic imagery that keeps us guessing and coming back for me. It’s the way you possess ghosts that scares every one of us to death because we know you’re onto something and are going to leave us in the Louisiana dust before it’s too late and the jury comes back with a non-guilty verdict.