Dear Poetry

You. An assimilation of adrenaline-spiked cough syrup into silk thread linen, You. The mutual trench warfare aftermath lying in craters of dystopian closet space. The Meridian glitch tied to the bangle earrings evicted from Pandora's box. The ink stained flesh reanalyzing flux capacitor scars. I reminisce the euphoria of our introduction. We met when I was 13 years old and cemented to the homogeneous seats in muted auditorium, but little did I know I would witness the perfect marriage of desperation and reconcile. The artist shouted the ether to my trauma, and struck the liquid ebony goldmine tucked within my wrist. Your extemporaneous lifetime trickled out of my tear ducts and hypnotized my confidence until it was homesick. I remember starting to piece together jigsaw metaphors. I tattooed my calligraphy on college ruled oak rings similar to Saturn, before my hands ran out of rocket fuel, yet I always seemed to find a way to hydroplane on inspiration's fumes. I have enough pages of uninhibited manuscript to make escape route paper chains to the moon, and I'm hypersensitive to a point where I used to wish I could write a launch sequence eulogy, while people place flowers along the lenses of my telescope. You compelled me to weave my heart into the exterior of my biceps for strangers to rest their intrigue, so maybe the muscle tone can protect my body, a protein powder sand castle, from the waves of those who oppose my path. Your charm contaminated my ruin, and rendered me a benevolent lunatic who keeps intentionally spilling vibrant retrospection on the audience's strongholds... an oblivious artisan who measures symmetric tablespoons of love carefully quantified by the number of heart emojis in her text messages. Without you I would have to run a DNA test on my reflection to make sure I didn't take somebody else's by mistake, but I know for sure who you are. You, they call poetry. You.. manifest the politically blasphemous dialogue that turns the whines of the hopeless back into water. You absorb the hatred many keep clenched in their fists. I am merely the innovative distractions that were diagnosed as dumpster fires before they became a cadence on anyone else's eardrums, but I've never felt better, because of the likelihood my iridescence in the alleyway might've kept someone from plummeting to the bottom. But you, are poetry. How can I do what you do? I'm an awkward conversation to the atmosphere. I am just your series worth of technicolor subtitles hell bent on hurling discontinued flasks into the bottom of ocean, and I want to be “you” enough to to rip addiction out of a broken hero’s eyelids. Some days I really feel like you're all I got. And on days where you're not my favorite coping mechanism, you're the urge that coaches my incompetence to fight for a tomorrow that belongs to me, everyone under the sound of my voice… And you.