Poetry as a child, I wrote of my thoughts,
And did not realize the destruction it wrought.
I saw the world as black and white,
With scarlet as its natural highlight.
I wrote of the red, the pain and suffering,
I did not realize I was uncovering,
I wrote of my father abandoning my family,
I wrote of missing a piece of my own identity,
I wrote how it hurt to be called fat,
By my own aunt, uncle and grandmother, at that.
I wrote what people expected of me,
And being silent in how miserable I’d be,
If I followed their dreams instead of my own,
But speaking against it would be heavily condoned.
Poetry started as a play pastime for me,
A lens of the world, snapshots of what I see.
But now it is an old friend of mine,
The kind I would recognize from behind.
But wouldn’t have the courage to say,
“Hello, remember back in the day?”
A poet is someone who can write unled,
Small words to compensate for hundreds unsaid.
So I would not label myself as one,
I have not built up more than I’ve undone.