Poetry is the art of distillation 

Of any instance, feeling, or experience

I wish I could use it 

For the sunny days and smiles, but instead 

It takes me through the hardships 

 

The days when my 

Words settle homes in my throat,

Leaving me numb and dumb 

And inarticulate 

 

The nights when my 

Bones ache and shake 

Like I don't belong 

 

The times when

My voice is but a ghost in the

Negotiations with my demons

I unsheath my sword, or rather, 

Uncap my pen 

 

Only poetry can purge me and

Scrub away the habits of my head

To bring detriment to my body 

 

Those moments that seemed heavy once

Became fleeting when laid to rest 

In countless journals and folios 

 

With the erratic nature of emotion 

And what it can brand on the paper

I never know how dark the

Words I lay down may be 

 

Yes, on occasion,

The  midnight hymns of my

Heart have pained me to compose

 

But had they never been written 

Perhaps the words would still be stones in my throat 

Rendering me hopeless to release

The anguish that has plagued me since 

My conscious youth

 

So for my voice and lightness

I have only verse to thank 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The words that were once so dark have

Faded in the bright light of the 

Happiness I have found