A miscommunication

When I was little, I was filled with thoughts

I had bad ones and good ones and ones that made me see spots. 

I tried to tell my mother,

to see if I was ill. 

But we didn't understand one another,

We don't still.

She told me I was silly,

that my imagination ran amuck.

But I still thought the words were pretty,

with language, I was struck. 

I wrote my thoughts down,

my feelings too when they came around. 

I immersed myself in poetry.

I let my life be known,

laid out all my blood and each and every bone.

To know me you don't have to be my friend,

you simply have to read my words. 

The feelings are not implicated,

for that would be absurd. 

My body is a poem,

my brain wrote it down.

I simply follow their command

and listen to my heart. 

I am a poet,

and writing is my art.