Bound to these words

I found a rhythm in my poetry

Let the unspoken words flow from me

I’m the soil

and a tree of knowledge grows from me

Life’s a coil,

twisted around my throat.

But I’m not giving in

as I begin

to choke,

choke

I’m a slave to these words,

literacy is my yoke.

I’m bound to the idea

of voicing the unvoiced.

So when I write I pretend to have a choice.

Like an addict,

I say I could quit if I wanted to.

But that’s something I’d never do.

To stop writing means stop breathing.

With no flow, I have no meaning.

And with no meaning, I am dust.

Trust me when I say,

I’d rather die

than leave words on my lips

that could’ve

 changed lives.