Poetry is a force,
and I almost can’t stop it.
Like I’m falling face-forward
with my hands in my pockets.
I'm a little more than different,
with too many shapes to fit in.
But I just want to make a difference,
and this is where I begin.
Because I know what it means
to have a high-school hobby turn real.
There’s poetry in my dreams,
let me tell you how I feel!
I’m a writer,
I twist stories in my head.
Ideas spark like a lighter,
leaving the fire to spread.
I can't shine my creativity any brighter;
I keep my imagination well-fed.
I smile just because
I know what writing does.
I am Sandbox Poetry,
and I plan to shock vocally.
Shake my hand, let’s talk,
in command when I drop
of a man who can’t stop
I don’t think you understand,
I’ll climb to the top of my topic, and then expand.
Spilling ink on demand, I'm making metaphors sink into the sand.
I’m just trying to show it openly.
Just dying to grow my poet-tree,
because it’s satisfying to know
I tend to glow globally.
I owe it to my poetry.
So let me show you what it means to me
when reality seems like dreams to me.
Like when a yellow bird sent me fan mail from Spain.
Saying “Dylan, you’re voice is heard.
You fill-in my gaps with your words.
You’re spilling ink with a steady grasp of how it works."
And it's motivating to know
that someone in Mexico
can't let go
of the words I wrote.
She said, "I used to be hopeless,
but now I just focus on what I’m worth.
I realize it could be worse.
Never again will I feel the same-
you, my friend, have helped me change.
So thank you for showing me
through your poetry
that I, too, can heal the pain.
There's something more for me to gain.”
And that’s what showed me
that there’s some poetry
leaking out my seams.
From everything you know of me
and the content of my dreams;
That I’m not the same kid, I’m weightless
but I wouldn’t call it fateless.
I’m not at all aimless.
The past says, “Remember me when you’re famous.”
But tomorrow says, “Everybody goes through changes.”
But one day, you’ll figure out what my name is.
I’m not blameless.
But at least I remember who from which I came is.
When I look metaphors in the eyes,
that the sunshine pours and absorbs in my pores,
deleting the sores that I’ve stored inside.
I’m greeting with words
all my worth and pride.
So cross your fingers and dot the I’s
because my thoughts just linger
This is everything I do and burn to be.
Never had a clue, but learned to see
that whether it reflects off you, or dissects into me,
I can write my way through
if I hold onto
I mean, think.
Could you imagine me
writing you through a tragedy,
helping you grasp reality.
Lifting your spirits like there's no gravity.
You're shifting your ears to hear how naturally
I can scribble words into a masterpiece.
So if there’s no ink in the printer,
I’ll write until my pen dies.
Because I’m just a poet, and I know my place:
buried in paper, with ink on my face.