I Wouldn't Be Here

I forgot the first time

I ever labored

to birth a poem.

 

 

I certainly don't remember

if my first paper tattoo

even rhymed

at all. 

 

 

Was it free verse 

or iambic? 

Was it a sonnet? 

or meaningless ink? 

 

 

I don't recall 

the first theme 

my first poem 

was about. 

 

 

But I do remember 

a little something

about myself. 

 

Finishing the forever

revision-needed, 

I set down my pen

and felt relieved. 

 

Writing a poem 

unpinches a nerve,

fills in a hole, 

and opens up 

revelations. 

 

No matter how long each line, 

or short, 

The way words are placed, no matter, 

there is a common voice 

a common truth 

that speaks its own truth. 

 

The last poem I bled, 

described my paleness. 

In those ink stained pages, 

those short words and long letters 

captured my pains and heart aches. 

 

Each stroke of curve and line, 

each emphasizing dash and dot, 

each pause for a new stanza, 

each smeared black blot, 

 

--they are me, 

on those pages, 

mirroring myself, 

I, at me, stare. 

 

That ray of love light that poured through the chambers of my heart? 

That gray stubborn cloud that rained dark rain on my brain? 

Those little creatures that died without living? 

Pages seven, twenty, and fifty-nine. 

 

The desires I once had five days ago 

like your hand in mine four years before? 

The painful slap of remembering 

and the physical agony of reliving? 

Looseleafs three and four. 

 

More than 300 poems. 

filled with over four years of feelings. 

From my growth to my shrinking sanity, 

from my lovers who showed no sympathy,

from those I've hurt to me who hurt. 

 

Poetry captures all. 

Poetry captures me.

Poetry spares nothing, 

it doesn't leave behind anybody. 

 

It is the lens I peek through 

that allows me to capture 

all that I know and knew. 

 

Poetry is the tug of line 

that unclogs a blockage of dangerous emotions. 

It is the loud satisfying sneeze

after a long anticipation. 

 

Poetry lets me breathe 

and saves me when I no longer want to live. 

It engulfs me in its meaningful embrace. 

It is my saving grace. 

 

When nobody can I turn to 

I turn to writing and poetry. 

It never is a person 

but words that comfort me. 

 

Poetry, poetry. 

 

Poetry, 

poetry. 

 

 

 

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Guide that inspired this poem: 

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