questions of a self considered poet.

simple moments
big ideas
twisted together
with thoughtful fingers
and a well placed pause
here and there
eraser crumbs on my shirt
and caught in my uncombed hair 
does this make me a poet?

my fingers still twitching 
across my page 
words appearing 
from this half broken pencil 
my stomach complains
about the broken promise I made
to eat breakfast an hour ago
but my half broken pencil keeps writing these words
does this make me a poet?

time wasting away 
and soon gone is my day 
and I'm writing late into the night
under my dimmed kitchen light 
the eraser crumbs still caught in my hair
and a fully broken pencil
is lying over there
I found a new one
it worked just as well
and the words keep on flowing 
and my poems keep on growing
does this make me a poet?