I cried for weeks.
Couldn't seem to find the energy,
didn't know how pain could become something,
until I used it as my bandaid
and beneath it bloomed poetry.
We tell ourselves to feel less
but poetry screamed at me to feel more.
My mother always told me I was sensitive.
My sister called me a crybaby.
It felt like an insult, it felt so beautiful,
because I'd rather feel too much than feel nothing.
So ever since the age of thirteen,
words would gather until they could form stanzas,
and stanzas made me feel clean,
and were a better way of coping.
As a child I would scream,
and while I am typing I am screaming;
"LISTEN, LISTEN to how beautiful words can be,"
so provactive, yet so sweet.
Cultivating my labor for later release.
It's an unorthodox way of healing,
Makes the bones shake and the eyes weep,
but I gain more from writing.
As my fingers hit the keys,
I know it will get better.
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