Evolution in Expression

Writing isn’t a talent

Writing is an art

An art that even people with minds under lock and key

Shades snapped shut

Blindfolded and ‘lalalalala I can't hear you’-earplugs thick with set-in-stone beliefs;

Can feel in their souls

 

Writing is a freedom, through expression, a skill.

'The pen is mightier than the sword' mom and dad would say say

...They're right...

'Hone your words through skill so that they may lash your enemies to bits

Rip into the soft underbelly of a swollen ego' to make father proud

or 'soften the blows of hardship with the feathery kindness' of skating around an issue

Like momma

 

Poetic expression isn't a talent

It’s the way mother taught you to speak and mostly listen

Big words that, back then, meant nothing to you

Another gold star on the fridge and a smile

It’s in the way that sometimes it got violent if you talk too much so it’s best to swallow your words

Dad doesn't like it when you talk too much

I never liked it when he took too many pills to kill the pain he kept causing himself

Bottled up emotions litter your hearts like the empty prescriptions in the recycling

'At least he cared about the environment'

 

School got you into poetry even though your mother claims otherwise

Mom was thrilled and is still pulling out enough of her poems to wallpaper the whole house

She doesn't quite like your works though

Her eyes loose the light she tries so hard to keep in them as she goes

She trashes multiple

Too many bad memories she wouldn't wish on anyone so why recycle

You stop showing her

 

School gets harder and the emotions that come with public education are all teeth and claws

And it hurts almost as bad as the knives you onced used to spell out the things girls whispered

You stop feeling real unless youre drawing

You havent written for a while -the static in your head from pills that dont work- cutting in

One day you just

Break

You tear up in a moment of pure cliche as you spill your heart out for a grade

Your inspiration?

Years of finely aged regrets and unuttered pain

 

You get help

 

The right medicine to counteract the waves of crushing numbness

Your poetry told them you needed more

You express yourself externally now

You’ve stopped carving words into your legs; now into paper

Graphite replaces iron and the tears rarely choke you anymore

Poetry was the lifeboat caring you to shore and what helped you to save yourself

From...yourself

This poem is about: 
Me
My family
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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