I can talk a lot, Now.
But it was poetry that taught me how.
Before my sentences were jumbled up phrases only I could understand,
With with minimal explaining.
Constantly rephrasing my language to fit the syntax of another
Who didn't want to hear my story in the first place,
Made me forget how to words,
It was the pen,
Paper from a printer,
Page from a pamphlet,
That taught me how to words.
Inspiration was my tutor,
Helping rid me of my uncomfortable stutter,
When saying phrases like, "I feel..."
I was mute before poetry,
But once the ink,
Familiar "tap tap" of a keyboard,
Came in contact with my shakey hand and real/virtual piece of paper,
I became one of the loudest in the room.
Because I understand it,
And it understands me,
Whether or not I'm writing the lines communicating,
Exactly how I feel.
It was Poetry that taught me how to words.