Poetry is a tool, and I have found that the more I practice, the more precise I am.

It is an x-ray machine, allowing me to discover where I wish to examine myself.

It is rib shears, slicing my ribs open to expose my heart.

It is a bone saw, cutting into my head to free what has been bulit up inside.

It is a chisel, breaking and resetting my bones so that I may express pain.

It is morphene, helping me forget my emotional turmoil.

Poetry is a tool that reminds me I am human.