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I'm the poem, not the poet

When an idea is vapour without body, unowned and alone
A fleeting thought whisked into a flurry of swirls
Neither tinged by cold emotion of unhappy recall,
where memory provokes a response
Or heated by flames inside a yearning mind
It teeters on periphery of syntax
Waves of passion anchor, buffer and expose
imperfect rawness of creation
Words curl around tongue,
fall into being to breathe air
Becomes decipherable,
salve for each inner wound so alive to criticism
Expectant of connection,
it stands upright to flex, or recoil.
Deed is done. A poem birthed
amid small sigh of satisfaction.