Spinning Adoxographies

I love watching words disappear in the sand,

Breathing through the pages of a book in my hand.

I am a Renaissance woman living in an allegory,

And I find myself contemplating my own story.

Poetry has taught me how to live my life right—

Whisper words to the shadows and bring them to light.

It taught me how to write my way to first place

And how to use my silence to find glory with grace.

It gifted me with morals to guide me through rigor

And literary idols who I study with vigor.

It turned me into a hook-line-and-sinker dreamer

And gave me principles to determine my demeanor.

First of all, everything I vocalize is a compromise

Between pen and paper and my talent to romanticize.

I write for what I’ve lost.  I write for what I’ll gain.

I write for whatever traces of my name will still remain.

I live my life like my every action is a word

In a book I’ve been writing; I don’t care if it’s absurd

My holy grail is the epitome of legacy and literacy.

Do not confuse my effort as something I give out for free.

I’m living in a world where practice doesn’t always correlate with preaching.

I’m stuck in a spectrum of society that always keeps us reaching.

But I will not let my position or conviction be bought.

I represent myself, and I will always take my shot.

I will shatter every expectation thrown at me.

I will strive for recognition in a world of finality.

I will shoot for the stars, confident I will not miss.

I promise you someday you will read my magnum opus.

I always feel the need to hold a pen in my hand,

And I rarely find the strength to deny the demand.

The books on my shelf call out for a reread,

And I convince myself I missed some words I may need.

The pen never stops, and the ink never slows,

And my collection of beautiful words only grows.

They push and they pull and they break and they burn.

They teach my hands to dance and they teach my ears to learn.

I am constantly obsessing, possessing the will to stay silent.

Society says normality is unique, but I refuse to buy it.

I won’t cutback my perspicacity or write with any less,

Valuing my verbal inventiveness and cleverness.

My demeanor is quiet, but my head is loud.

I refuse to lose my libretto of life in the crowd.

While every single word thrown in the air and down the drain

Makes me want to burst into yet another scholarly refrain.

I fully take advantage of the skills I wield.

I’m quiet in the classroom but two-fisted on the field.

Despite the connate, unconventional qualities I bear,

The most unruly thing about me is undoubtedly my hair.

Even though poetry taught me to always stay smart—

Clean-cut and swift, never missing a mark—

It also told me rules are only for dispassionate mages

Who are too afraid to pour their souls out onto the pages.

It taught me form only goes as far as poetic license

And meters do not have to make sense

And that even when I am composing songs to be music to the ears,

I can scratch a rhyme,

Cut it down to doubletime,

Pick the rhyme right up again,

Speed up the pen,

And add a fifth line now and then.

Because wild words

Make beautiful herds,

And it won’t really hurt

If the rhyme doesn’t work.

So every so often

My edges will soften

Then sharpen up and restore order in full,

Before my passion gets too out of control.

My soul is infatuated with the art of the trade—

The fleeting finesse of words that will eventually fade.

My heart keeps beating for the life I love leading,

The books I keep reading, and the words that keep bleeding.

My autobiography will not collect dust on a shelf.

I have finally decided I owe it to myself

To be the master of my fate, damn the powers that may be.

So, I’ll sit down and write, and I’ll write it all for me.