What is poetry but words? 

Words on pages, words on screens

Words hiding in heads, caught on the edge of screams.

Why do I love words so? Why do I write? 

I can breath just fine without poetry

And maybe poetry would be better off without me.

Maybe I should put down my pen and go gently into the night

Of bank accounting, nuclear physics or upper management.

You know, something important.

But the thing is, words are important. 

Not to breathe but to live.

The universe breathed life into my form, but it never taught me to live.

The words creeping in my ears, banging around in my head,

Balancing on the precipices of my lips

Breathed life into me as God did to Adam.

Who am I but the actions I take? The words I say?

The promises I make and the promises I break? 

What is poetry but words, but our lives, but our souls? 


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