"Why are you in this class?

Aren't you going to be an English major?"

"Damn, well if learning how and why I work

isn't poetry then I don't know what the hell is."

I have more cells in my body than there are people

living on this planet,

and unlike people, there is no racism, no prejudice,

no rape or slander.

Just life. 

Life untouched by the hands of man;

life that is as pure and honest as grace itself.

If one cell were to perish, there is no funeral; no mourning-

just an empty spot waiting to be filled again.

I used to think I was tattered with voids-

riddeled with holes that had no purpose.

However, I learned that cells have walls which allow certain 

substances to travel through undisturbed-

like travelers sneaking on to a train.

It's all about letting the hapiness travel freely,

and not letting the sadness become that traveler.

Every Seven years, each and every single one

of my cells will die, and bloom again-

like some sort of holy transition into a better world.

The person I was Seven years ago is not the man I am today,

and the skin I hold will not be the same skin I have in the future.

If shedding your old self and emerging from the rubble isn't poetry,

then I'm not quite sure what is.

So I need not fret, for the heartach and pain I have will

soon too be swept away with the changes in biology.

I will be born again and again, and that is something I ache to feel.

The science behind these bones of mine make me flawless;

but the words behind my skull are even more so.