I Ran out of Pencils, So I’m Writing in Pen

or

A Coffee Shop Confession of Faith

 

I'm putting down my pencil and picking up my pen.

I'm writing these poems with strokes of permanence and all of my mistakes are for the world to see.

Let them see the smudging of sentences and the crosses that crucify words that just didn't fit right.

Sometimes one word can't describe everything that you mean.

Fuck the people who only see all of the mistakes.

They don't realize that poetry isn't about stringing together well placed words that flow through lips like seamless streams of water.

They don't realize that poetry isn't about dazzling a crowd like a dancer effortlessly traversing a dreamscape of rhythm and flow just to land elegantly on his feet every time.

Poetry is never that kind.

It's undefined.

It's hard to find, and harder to hold onto.

My poems are a precise formula of raw words multiplied by the fact that they are unedited then divided among my readers.

The sum of the product an unknown factor that remains a mystery.

Poetry is a mystery.

Something new that requires discovery.

It's as mysterious as a new found relationship.

Words spoken out loud land lightly on ears.

Words not spoken in the silence are the ones that will last years.

Moments made in each other's eyes

Removing any chance of disguise from each other.

Nervous hands trace over new skin.

Like a poet's hand traces over a new page.

Words written, testing the waters as fingers explore a new body.

Gentle at first,

Cautious,

Slow, like dew drops forming on a blade of grass waiting for the inevitable fall when the morning sun makes its appearance.

Letters fall onto a blank page.

Kisses fall onto a new face.

Kisses can’t be edited so why should words be expected to?

Poetry is as sensual as two bodies intertwined.

Hands infuse with hair as ink infuses with paper

Chemicals seep through the fibers of the page leaving their mark.

The same way oxygen seeps through a blood cell after each inhale of a lover’s breath.

Poetry is the exasperated sigh resulting from an emotional response.

It is the words that can’t be found yet expresses everything.

Poetry is an expression.

An expression of love.

An expression of thought.

An expression of the otherwise unobtainable.

It is a spiritual belief for those who can’t find a God.

Our bible, a collection of poems read to us as kids.

The holy scripture written by poets brave enough to face the unknown with no more than a chewed up pen and coffee stained paper.

Our apostles explored the four corners of the world, searching for the best corner to write about, only to discover that the world is round.

Poetry is a religious awakening.

We pray in coffee house temples

Where only ten people fit at a time.

Our sermons are the voice of a socially awkward host announcing our names.

Our confessions are four minutes long and open to the public.

We confess our sins to anyone who will listen.

Our prayers validated by stranger’s snaps.

And when we die our gravestones have the most beautiful epithets.

Buried with our poems, even though our voice has died our thoughts will live on.

Words escape the fate of time and space and that is heaven to us.

Poetry is heaven.

My poems may not be perfection but I’m done hiding behind an eraser.

I’m writing my poems in pen because even though the words may become faded over time, the words will live on in the minds of my readers.

And they will become the leaders who carry on my legacy.

My legacy of smudged sentences and crossed out words.

Because the meaning of these poems can’t be found in the finished product.

The meaning can only be found within the mistakes.