Poetry and Poet-hood

Sun, 06/26/2016 - 21:50 -- CH

Poetry is my blood,

and tears,

and my everything,

stained inky black and swirled on paper.

Poetry isn’t simply a way to say things beautifully,


but my way to express the luggage I can’t because.

My parents tell me I’m a teen having mood swings,

But no, listen to me,

My friends treat everything as a funny joke,

Please, listen to me,

My teachers think I’m a simpleton goody-two-shoes,

Listen to me,

Until even I don’t know who I am,

With a pen clenched in between my white-knuckled hands.


Poetry isn’t only literature in verse for me,

--not just the alternative for prose,

--not the rhymes at the end of lines,

all of that, and more.

Poetry is an escape,

when I’m furious at everything,

or impassioned,

or depressed,

it’s my way, to not run, but face the world.

I shout, "This is me",

Behind this mask,

Hey, this is me,

Described in words,

This is me,

And all the things I couldn’t say to them face to face.


I like to think that I was born first a poet,

born second a daughter,

see, I was six,

writing about fire trucks and power rangers.

I was living in a sculpted world,

my parents’ world,

didn’t know a thing about pain,

or money,

or happiness.

My eyes glued to the TV screen,

hypnotized by good beating bad,

it was the only thing I knew.

But god,

could I have been anymore wrong?

A no, because yeah I didn’t think so too.


Time zipped by in ragged jerks,

and I really did try to resist,

but reality,

went ahead and ripped open my unwilling eyes.

First it started with a light slap,

then a hefty knock,

only for the beatings to start.

The fire trucks and justice were just a dream now,

innocence? Ha.

I was thirteen when I turned ugly,

when my poems did too,

because how can the words like.



Not be every kid’s nightmares? But wait, I’m no kid anymore.


I was dying inside,

(and maybe on the outside too),

but my parents,

and my sister,

and my brothers,

needed me for themselves.

Pretend, I told myself,

Pretend, my mantra,


So yeah, drugs and cigarettes and alcohol couldn’t save me,

I only had myself to depend on,

that and my poetry,

the secret words scratched in the night,

where I could be vulnerable,

My secret garden, my haven, my paradise there until the end.


Others might have their definition,

on what it means to be a poet,

on what exactly is poetry.

But to me it’s simple,

there are no rules or restrictions.

Poetry is blissful freedom.

It can be sharp and cold or soft and warm.

Poetry is the torrent of feelings that one must hide.

It will be passionate and alive.

Poetry is the gears of what makes a person run.

Being a poet is an identity.

It may be a choice or an inborn facet.

Being a poet is being a survivor and a fighter.

It could be harrowing or welcoming.

Being a poet is being yourself in your words.

This poem is about: 


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