I am pregnant with words
waiting to spill out
from the fatness of my belly.
My breasts are heavy
with vowels that threaten to spurt.
They fill my stomach, my mouth, my ears
like little cats struggling to yelp out.
My uterus is stretched by consonants;
and I crave for vowels.
Sentences and phrases bear me down.
I stuff my face with food but it is not enough.
God knows when this gestation will end.
Do my doodles and scribbles make me a poet?
But “poet” is only a word.
And I love words;
hence there is nothing “only” about it.