Scholarly Contemplation

A poem is not born.
It is compiled
of things born.
Like this line
(or the next one)
or memories
(like the time
we shared our
souls
in my backyard
-it felt crunchy)
[All swimming around
in my head
(like you were
when I read you
all my poetry
-I felt naked
in the worst way
(but you still loved
me))]
or bits of me
(as much as I
can fit
through the
tip of my pen)
or some magical gift
of the supernatural
a gift of Zeus
or Allah
or pixie dust
but mostly,
I think,
just me.