Poetry is Me

The words flow from my heart

And into my revolving conscious

Where at the jot of a pen they part,

And with revision, I am cautious.

Poetry is me,

And I am poetry.

Uttering my faults under my breath

Challenges the new, beautiful art

Of my name sake’s evolving breadth

As the next stanza is summoned to start.

How poetry became me

Is how I was set free.

Tampered memories die in crossfire

Yet live forever in my orchestration

Because my one true desire

Is to escape such scary confrontation.

I am no Edgar Allan Poe,

But his wonderful “My Annabel Lee”

Has inspired my passion to grow

Into something I want to be.

Spreading my angelic wings

To take flight on Unmarked Expression

Is a blemish that no longer stings,

Granting synchronized dimension.

Wind resonates with my wiles

Whereas I conquer the Gold Cloud

With uplifting spirituality for miles,

Willing to shine outside the crowd.

A poet is only as good as her creativity,

Ameliorating blind emotion with more than being blunt

To rampage my hidden self in excessive brevity,

And arouse a talented spunk.

Emily’s random capitalization on feelings pent up

Encourages my unique, expressive style to unfold

To keep me writing until I am nonexistent

Because poetry is my kindred soul.