All Poets Have A Font

I think all poets 

Have their own fonts;

At least in my head they do. 

The works of some poets are

In slanting, cursive, mysterious

Fonts

That dance on paper

Like russian ballerinas

That were always meant to be 

Famous.

Thin as a waif, lighter than a thought.

Some poets write in rotund, angry sploshes

That scream of rebellion

And uprisings.

Revolution comes through 

Their rhyme schemes,

With a defiant fist in the air.

Some poets make your heart flutter

With their pretty calligraphy.

A butterfly in mid-flight,

Unaccompanied by any dark clouds

That may rain on this parade.

Whatever you read

Will only evoke jealousy in your heart-

Ah, what I would give

To be able to write something so small

But so beauteous!

But I don't write like any of these.

My poetry feels like a collage

Of fifty-eight fonts.

They're each dancing 

To their own merry tunes.

I see big blocks of emotions

That I didn't know I'd stored within me,

And which need evaluation-

Do I need all this guilt?

Must I feel this insecurity?

Am I jinxing my own happiness?

This font isn't photogenic,

If you ask me,

But it gets the job done.

It flows obediently

From my heart to head to paper.

And the best thing is

That my font remains

Indelible.

It endures like a resilient firefly

And for that

I am proud.