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.