Weightless
I have always been too heavy.
Not my thighs,
Or my hips,
Nor arms or stomach.
I’m not talking about the things people see.
The heaviest thing I carry is: me.
My heart - too weary,
And
My soul - too tattered.
Some days, it’s taxing to breathe.
But when I pick up a pen,
Or hover my fingertips above a keyboard,
The weight relents it’s burden.
Turning my heartache into words
That might be beautiful,
I am given wings.
And I soar.
I let waterfalls of stanzas
Glide over my wounds,
I breathe in the crisp air of
Free verse and wash myself
Of pain.
When I feel too lost to find my feet,
And my heart too laden for rest,
Poetry finds me.
The artistry caresses me.
When I hear frustration crackle
Through my mother’s words.
When my future looks like
A goal I’ll never reach,
My tears wrack through me
And my shoulders sag.
And poetry finds me.
Tear-stained pages and
Leaded words
Gather me in an embrace.
I am welcomed home
Inside of my poems;
No longer a disaster,
But so terribly human.
These words withhold all judgement.
Poetry means that I can be me,
Sad, broken, lost, jubilant,
Terrified, wistful, hopeful
Urging, triumphant
Me.
Inside pages upon pages,
I find abandon; the solace
To simply be.
The courage to be weak.
The freedom of devastation.
I have always been too heavy,
And poetry helps me breathe.