Where there's a will, there's a word

So Paris texts me this morning saying, “If you cannot be the poem, be the poet. Nice na?”
I get suspicious. What is she implying? Huh. I could be a poet if I wanted.
If I wanted to
I could say boo
To scare you
Or I could coo
To comfort you.
I could write a line
With a pen of mine
I could write nine
They would be fine.
See? Explains a thought in rhyme. Poetry. Poet. Ha.
Having comforted myself with this jiffy rhyme I text her back.
It would be lovely to be someone’s poem. It’s like being someone’s song only without the tune.

If you could be a poem which one would you choose? If you could be a song which one would you be? If someone was to read you a passage what would you like to hear? If you could command words from a mouth that you love what would they be? If an artist were to come to life whose Muse would you be?
I take Dali. I’d like to imagine that all my restlessness and motion and mobility of lips, eyes, hair, hands would be his fluidity of brush. (I write for myself all the time as you can see.)
If I could hear a passage, heck, even find someone to read it to, I’d pick Wuthering Heights – Catherine’s talk with Nelly.
If I could be a poem I’d like it to be one written for me. Good, bad but mine.