Everything is a Poem
I composed a poem by stringing together my deepest wounds
But after two hundred and sixty-four lines
I don't want to anymore.
I decided pain can be made beautiful
With breathless rhythm and a thesaurus but
The house I built out of victimhood was never
Meant to be a permanent home.
Simple moments, mundane moments, grow into poetic magnificance
Intentional depravity quieted to make room for selflessness
For choosing the fullness of empty jars on a windowsill, of a book not yet written in
Pine chips in an empty parking lot, fragrant in the heat
White, rippling curtains shining in the joy of summer
The honest exhaustion and calloused hands of a days work under the sun
Roller blading by the river, learning to be alone.
Words wrap themselves into the beauty of silence and of traffic on the freeway
I see now, there is poetry in everything
Not just pain.