Weave me Round

Creativity built of words,
forming a castle where we grew
wings gossamer light,
to explore corridors
artistically draped with spiders
webs.

I am no Arachne
my mouth toughened
by silks of steel,
sometimes I puke
a pottage that is decay
and hang it on ceilings;
Admiration flashing,
a rainbow of chandeliers,
plastic diamonds
turning round and round
to catch the best light.
I weave and spin
chew and spit
rend useless, merciless paper.
A mewling!
Am I a poet?