The Key

Moonlight trickles in through my open window.

A faint summers breeze sneaks in with the moonlight,

and caresses my paper rhythmically.

 

The familiar scratch of pen against paper,

pen against paper

joins the melody, and is like a private symphony.

I begin to hum and soon I've created a masterpiece.

 

I leave it all on the page, everything.

The words I could never say aloud but escape 

through the lips of my ballpoint pen.

 

Paper, my eager yet somehow patient audience.

Their only critique that I pour out more of my soul, and write more

earnestly.

 

Poetry has taught me to be intentional. 

 

I observe what I've written,

feeling the imprint of the letters

on the back of the paper 

reading it like brail.

 

I, inhale and exhale 

hoping that the letters will combine and spell out my truth.

 

"Here, lies the writings of a broken woman."

 

Poetry has taught me that healing is not linear.

 

Just as surely as night flows into day and 

day into night, the sun rises.

 

Lighting the sky in a gradient 

of Air Force and Carolina blue.

 

The transition from twilight to daybreak,

dawn, the sunrise, a new day,

it goes by many names.

 

Poetry has taught me that my emotions and musings

don't have to stay confined in the corners of my mind.

 

Poetry has taught me that my voice matters,

that my words don't have to be trapped

behind padlocked lips.

 

Poetry has taught me that I have the key,

 

The key to my happiness, my peace.

 

The key.

 

 

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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