Why I Write

My voice is insufficient

It cracks and creaks and stutters

Sometimes I cannot find it

Or understand its mutters

My body has a language

But very few can read it

It’s not near as expressive

Or as clear as I might need it

My piercings, clothes, and makeup

Are a style that reflect a choice

About who I feel I am

But they’re still not quite a voice

I write, because all else will fail

To tell you who I am

It’s the only way to really say

The words I clutch in hand,

The syllables that catch in my throat,

The secrets that kidnap with demands,

The hurts that bring me to my knees,

The hopes that help me stand.

And I won’t force myself on the world

‘Cause they rarely stop to heed

I won’t ask or beg to be heard

No, attention is not my need

But poetry, my soul on paper

Has been my saving grace

Amongst a crowd I am ignored

But here I find my place

A place where I am fully me

No judgment and no hate

A place for rest and release

And it’s here that I will stay