Growth

I suffered In silence to a point where expressing myself poetically became unrecognizable. 

My fingers feel like they can no longer manifest my pain into words 

I was wondering why I felt uneasy 

Why my world became chaotic 

Where peace no longer had a home 

How pain found a home in me 

 I couldn’t find contentment in myself  

So I looked for it within others. 

I forgot to turn to what my heart needed most. 

Written letters to my old self 

Becoming cognitive of this growth that declared its mark on me.

 It’s not pretty, this process isn’t pretty. 

So I will make certain I will create written eulogies to the death of my old self

And have opening arms to the person God has already placed inside of me. 

Poetry is my therapy.

Poetry is my voice 

Poetry is me.