Unfinished World

Some people write poetry

their writing utensil, a razor

their page, their skin

Some people write poetry

their writing utensil, a cigarette

their page, their lungs

Some people write poetry

their writing utensil, a paintbrush

their page, their canvas

Some people write poetry

their writing utensil, a pen

their page, their paper

I write poetry

my writing utensil, thoughts

my page, my heart

I've always seen

the world as poetry

as a way to express and feel

and believe in something new

and maybe it's because

razors scared me

and smoke make me suffocate

and art was never my thing

The world is a poem

still being written

And I'm blessed to get

a line in the mess of stanzas

haphazardly written and crossed out

If only others chose to see poetry

instead of destruction

maybe the black slashes across

the pages wouldn't be so dark

and maybe those suffocating could breathe

and those bleeding could heal

and those expressing could be free

If only, if only, 

always if only

because we're still a poem

unfinished