Speaking in broken sentences

To convey a single meaning

Only to reedit

To make it anew.

 

Poetry is something

That didn’t come naturally

But the teacher said

I had to write a poem,

So I wrote.

 

At first, I didn’t like it.

It was boring,

It was broken,

It was empty.

 

Later in life,

My story words

Didn’t say it right,

So I wrote.

 

In those broken pieces,

Like my broken life,

I now understood.

 

The poem had

Another meaning.

There was a story

Now read

Anew.

 

Words flowed

In broken pieces

For a broken meaning

That the reader fuses

Together.

 

It was beautiful.

 

Unable to stop,

I kept writing.

And when it didn’t

Come out right,

I changed some things

Before claiming it something

Irrelevant

To its original meaning.

 

It was interesting.

 

And when it didn’t

Come out right,

I threw out some things

Before claiming it something

Terrible

And I threw it away.

 

It was frustrating.

 

Another challenge,

Another hoop

To jump through,

And a poem to develop.

 

It was encouraging.

 

And soon my story-telling

Became empty,

And boring,

And broken.

 

So I stopped

The poetry.

 

It dissipated,

Hiding in the

Shadows of my desk,

Waiting for it to

Jump from the

Belly of the Beast

And be beautiful

In its maze of

Other Meanings.

 

Now here it is,

Another meaning,

Another set of letters

Scrambled into words

And conveying

Another meaning.

It is beautiful.