i forge, in verse, asylum
i forge, in fiction, asylum.
i remake the world in pencil strokes
and keyboard clicks, rejoicing in the proud march
across the page of stories i fear saying aloud.
but sometimes even the written word can fail me;
some emotions are strong enough to tear asylum apart.
i build feelings into heavy paragraphs that crumble apart
and so my fears trample unhindered through asylum.
my emotions flow in unpredictable tides. they drown me.
my failures to buffer them are punishing strokes
Like those of a father’s slipper against skin. i don’t cry aloud.
i just hope to regain the ease with which i made words march.
time bleeds into a new year: january, february, march...
new semester, new classes, new faces, but i hold myself apart.
there’s no backspace when you talk. if asked, i say aloud
“i’m fine, just quiet.” i say inside, “where is asylum?”
i paint my problems with broad strokes.
i rage against my inadequacies. i find no peace in being me.
one day for class, i write poems. there’s a shift in me.
i can’t quite recall the last time i witnessed a march
that flowed so easily from heart into pen strokes.
it’s not all easy: some lines still fall apart
but i knit them together, tight like gates to asylum
where fear falters. i read the stanzas aloud.
there’s an ebb and flow to stanzas recited aloud
and the effort needed to capture it enraptures me.
writing poetry causes me to reconsider what is asylum:
paragraphs of desires and musings brought to life. the march
of emotion leashed in verse across the page blows apart
my preconception that control can’t be found in lesser strokes.
poetry forces me to restrain the number of pen strokes
in which i express my depths. it’s easier to say aloud
when i must consider every syllable, and set apart
what jumbles the message, the pieces of me
that are the hardest to convey. and while the march
of words is shorter than ever, i continue to reach asylum.
i still paint my problems in vague strokes, but inside me
it gets easier to breath, and sometimes i say aloud the march
of feelings that threaten to tear me apart, and i forge, in verse, asylum.
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