A Voice of Words

I write poetry because it breathes within me It stretches me out—far beyond the physical existence I have been given Far out beyond the expansions of muttered phrases and routine days Far beyond. Poetry is a facet of myself—something far greater than who I am It gives me a voice I am a magician with words that can burst deafened ears With fragments of knowledge and of love and of laughter and tears Times of laughter Times of fears I seek out those base elements of life and pour them into molds Molds only I can see Molds only I can hold And I see beauty in all of these phrases and transcribe them into words Words of curses and tender moments and moments lost and found Words upon a page are written in ink both tangible and non But those words are what endure on They breathe And bubble Meander And spread Until they are no longer phrases in my head They are a voice far bigger than the words I can speak For who can deny words written in ink? All of my life People have been muttered phrases Glancing my way and spitting in faces Garbling in drunken tones high off of the wine of society But my written words float high above the oxygen intake Into another dimension where only abstract thoughts can wake Poems formed by my hand are not perfect in any way They stumble and sputter and leak and decay But I write poems during the hardest of times To anchor me down in the lullaby of rhyme