surely I am a poet.

surly, I am a poet.
 do I not reek of the stale smell of absolute misery?
surely. I am a poet.
do I not wistfully dream of the hidden ground world beneath the earth.
of the wholes I could call in to beseech.
surly, I am a poet.
do I not drowned my self in gloom, a captive of the written word.
surly, I am a poet.
do I not make the most simplistic of things complex?
do I not stir upon and flex?
do I not see beauty in all that is abandoned and cast away?
surely, I am a poet.
 as surely as the fiery colors of autumn leaves.